
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 


Ckftijrigfjt J)o,. 
Shelf 


4lL 


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




. 

















































































































. 
































H liliiiliiiiiiiiii HpigfgpgpiiiPiiii 

•| r^ rTrj ^Tcj — I rj^j^r-Tr^iFFfe! j-jlejr-Tr^l Si ■ ; T^- I T^' ; Tr^- ! Ti^-^T^^T^- ; Tr J 

-#• THE •#- 

UNPARDONABLE SIN. 

B*sr 

ARTHUR DUDLEY VINTON. 

Author of “ The Pomfret Mystery Etc., Etc. 


“Come, let us go and thank the Lord who made us 
to suffer, not to do, this deed”— Old Play . 

<i» — 

J. S. OGILVIE, PUBLISHER, 57 Rose St., New York ; 182 Wabash Ave., Chicago. 

lilt KEu COVER SERIES, No. 68. Issued Quarterly. Subscription Price, $1.00 per Year. August, 1889. Extra. 

Entered at New York Post-Office as Second-class matter. 



ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT 
BUILDING A HOUSE? 



If you are, you ought to buy the new book, JPallise?*’s 
American Architecture , or every man a complete builder, 
prepared by Palliser, Palliser & Co., the well known architects. 

There is not a Builder or any one intending to Build or 
otherwise interested that can afford to be without it. It is a 
practical work and everybody buys it. . The best, cheapest and 
most popular work ever issued on building. Nearly four hun- 
dred dra" \ngs. A $5 book in size and style, but we have deter- 
mined to make it meet the popular demand, to suit the times, so 
that it can be easily reached by all. * 

This book contains 104 pages 11 x 14 inches in size, and con- 
sists of large 9x 12 plate pages giving plans, elevations, per- 
spective views, descriptions, owners’ names, actual cost of con- 
struction, no guess work , and instructions How to Huild 
70 Cottages, Villas, Double Houses, Brick Block Houses, suitable 
for city suburbs, town and country, houses for the farm and 
workingmen’s homes for all sections of the country, and costing 
from $300 to $6,500 ; also Barns, Stables, School House, Town 
Hall, Churches, and other public buildings, together with speci- 
fications, form of contract, and a large amount of information on 
the erection of buildings, selection of site, employment of Archi- 
tects. It is worth $5. 00 to any one, but I will send it in papei 
cover by mail postpaid on receipt of $1.00; bound in cloth, $2.00. 
Address all orders to J. S. OGILVIE, Publisher, 

P. O. Box 2767. 57 Rose St., New' York 


THE 


Unpardonable Sin. 


BY 

ARTHUR DUDLEY VINTON, 

Author op “The Pomfret Mystery,” Etc., Etc. 



“ Come , let us go and thank the Lord who made us to 
suffer, not to do, this deed." — Old Play. 



J. S. OGILVIE, PUBLISHER, 

57 Rose St., New York; 182 Wabash Aye., Chicago. 


\ » I 


Dedication. 


TO THOSE FRIENDS, WHOSE FRIENDSHIP 
HAS WITHSTOOD THE TEST OF POVERTY, THIS 
BOOK IS GRATEFULLY DEDICATED. 

ARTHUR DUDLEY VINTON. 
New York, June, 1889. 


Reader, if you are tempted now to look 
Between the covers of this little book, 
Only the old, old story you will scan 
Of man’s ingratitude to fellow man. 

We sin, we strive, we sorrow 
In the same short-sighted way 
That our children will do to-morrow, 
That our fathers did yesterday. 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

WHAT HAPPENED IN A STREET CAR. 

At a quarter past midnight, on the morning of 
February 15th, in the year 18 — , John Foerster, an 
errand boy in a down town office, boarded car No. 307 
of the Brooklyn City Railroad Company, just as it 
left Fulton Ferry on its last trip eastward. The night 
was intensely disagreeable. The snow, which had 
begun to fall about two hours before, was damp and 
soggy, and the sharp wind from the northwest was 
just cold enough to keep it from melting, and just 
strong enough to pile it up in drifts at the street cor- 
ners and in front of vacant lots. 

There were several passengers on the car — six, in 
fact, including the driver, conductor and John Foerst- 
er — and at the City Hall three more got in, raising 
the total to nine. Fortunately, the car was provided 
with one of those small stoves which about this time 
were being introduced by the horse-car companies. 

The car rolled slowly along, over tracks which the 
snow covered again almost as soon as the sweeper 
cleared them. The tired horses wearily pulled it, up 
the tedious slopes, as far as Classon Avenue. As 
block after block was passed, the houses grew more 
and more sparse, and the wind took a fiercer and 
freer sweep over larger expanses of open ground. As 
yet, none of the passengers had alighted ; they were 
evidently, like John Foerster, all dwellers in that in- 
accessible suburb of Brooklyn, known as East New 
York. 

Beyond Classon Avenue the road ran for about two 
miles past vacant lots, and when the driver reached 
that point upon his route he saw ahead of him a smooth, 


6 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


unbroken expanse of snow, stretching' from cuib to 
curb, and more than a foot deep. He shook his head 
despondingly, as he looked through the clouds of 
steam that arose from his horses’ flanks, and gave a 
savage jerk to the reins. 

The passengers in the car had, in the meantime, 
adopted as comfortable positions as possible under the 
circumstances, and had mostly endeavored to while 
away the tedium of the trip by catching a few winks 
of sleep. In one corner near the door was a stout, 
red-faced man, whose slumbers were evidenced now 
and then by a deep, rumbling snore. He had entered 
the car at Fulton Ferry, staggering from the effects 
of too much conviviality, and the conductor had 
meditated upon the expediency of ejecting him. But 
he paid his fare, and beyond fixing his gaze upon the 
pasteboard sign and murmuring the haunting jingle 
which it suggested : 

‘ ‘ A pink trip slip for a tkree-cent fare, 

“ A blue trip slip for a five-eeut fare, 

“ A green trip slip for an eight-cent fare, 

“ Punch ! punch ! punch w ith care, 

“ Punch ! in the presence of the passengair 

he had remained orderly and had soon gone to sleep, 
so the conductor allowed him to remain. 

Opposite to this fellow was a big, robust Dutchman, 
enveloped in a huge, shaggy overcoat, with bulging 
pockets and a peculiar odor suspiciously like Lim- 
burger cheese. On the same seat, and close by the stove, 
was a young woman, with a baby some eighteen 
months old ; both of them asleep. At the other side 
of the stove was our acquaintance, John Foerster, 
with a red, woolen comforter wound around his ears 
and neck and with his hat pulled down over his eyes. 
He seemed to be blissfully unconscious of his surround- 
ings. 

The corners at the front were respectively occupied 
by a medium-sized, vouthful-faced man, whose bundle 
of papers tied up with red tape, proclaimed him to be 
a lawyer, or a lawyer’s clerk ; and by a tall, thin man, 
whose appearance gave no clue to his profession, and 
who might have been either an actor, returning from 


WHAT HAPPENED IN A STREET CAR. 7 

the scene of his histrionic triumphs, or a merchant 
taking- a late trip homewards from his store. 

These six had all been in the car when it started 
from the ferry. The three passengers who sat upon 
the seat opposite the stove were those who had entered 
at the City Hall. Two of these were women ; one 
was an elderly spinster-like female with a hatchet- 
face, sour-looking mouth, and sharp, keen grey eyes. 
She carried a newspaper parcel which seemed to con- 
tain something soft and pudgy, and which she had 
carefully placed on the seat by her side. Regardless of 
her maiden modesty, Sleep had clasped her in his 
arms, and her head drooped lower and lower, until 
her chin rested on her breast. At intervals she would 
start, look around her, and feel for the precious par- 
cel; then assured of its safety, she would close her 
eyes and sink again into slumber. The two other pas- 
sengers — one a fidgety little physician with his case of 
instruments, and the other a timid young girl — were 
the only ones who remained awake. The little doctor 
was too restless to sleep, and fidgetted about on his 
seat, perpetually scraping the hoar-frost from the win- 
dow, that he might make an observation of the out- 
side world and note his progress. He had tried to 
strike up a conversation with the young girl, who 
seemed to be kept awake by fear or anxiety, but be- 
yond informing him that she had been visiting at her 
friend’s house and had been. forced to come home alone 
because her brother, who had expected to escort her, 
had not arrived, she had nothing to say. So the car 
had been silent for a long while, save for .a stray sen- 
tence or two which the tipsy man had muttered in his 
sleep, and the scarcely audible ejaculations of the little 
doctor. 

In response to the driver’s jerk upon the reins, the 
horses plunged into the snow and the car followed 
them slowly, until finally a deeper drift than ordinary, 
blocked their way, and they came to a standstill. 

The cessation of motion roused the passengers, and 
with one accord they raised their heads and looked 
about them. The little doctor was already on his feet, 
and had the front door open expostulating with the 
driver. 


8 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


“ Vere ve vas, er ?” queried tlie fat Dutchman. 

“ Is this East New York ?” asked the spinster, 
gathering her bundle in her arms, as if preparing to 
alight. 

“ Hello ! what’s the racket ?” interrogated the law- 
yer’s clerk. 

Above this chorus of voices was heard the querulous 
voice of the little doctor complaining : 

“ Indeed, driver, you must go faster! I have a pa- 
tient waiting for me, and I ought to be there now. 
Really, if you don’t go on, I shall report you at the of- 
fice.” 

“ Ye’d bether repporrut the 'osses an’ the shnow, 
while yer ’bout it,” replied the driver, who had tied 
the reins to the brake handle, and was now stamping 
his feet and swinging his arms in an energetic endeav- 
or to restore his circulation. “ Sure, don’t ye see thet 
the ’osses is clean tuckered out, an’ thet they can’t 
pull no more till they’ve had a rist.” 

“ Oh, shut the door !” growled the tall passenger, 
over whose knees the cold draughts had been blowing. 
“ Come in, or go out if you want to, but anyhow shut 
the door.” 

“What’s the matter, conductor?” cried all the 
passengers in a chorus as that functionary entered. 

“ Nawthin’,” responded that official. “ Sure, let the 
hosses git their breaths an’ they’ll go on in a minute.” 

“ It’s disgraceful !” remonstrated the little doctor 
who had yielded to the importunities of the tall man 
and closed the door. “Perfectly disgraceful ! I shall 
write to the Eagle to-morrow. Where’s the sweeper 
that the tracks are not cleaned. They ought to have 
doubled up teams on a night like this !” 

The tipsy passenger who had all this while been 
stupidly gazing about him, getting his wits together 
now set up a song, of which could be distinguished 
only such fragments as, “ landlord,” “ flowing-bowl,” 
“merry, merry be,” “to-morrow,” and “get sober,” 
interspersed with numerous hic-coughs. 

“Ugh !” exclaimed the prim spinster. “ Conductor, 
turn that drunken brute out.” 

“ Wha’ ?” ejaculated the “ drunken brute,” gazing 
around with tipsy astonishment. “Wlia’I don’ yer 


WHAT HAPPENED IN A STREET CAR. 


9 


like mer (Iiic) sing-in’? Enutlier lady or gentleman ob- 
jec’ ?” And meeting with no response he began again 

“ When other li (hie) ips an’ oth (liic)er hearts 
Their (hie) tales of love shall tell (hie), 

In lan-(hie) whose language whose ex hie) cess imparts 
The '(hie) power they feel (hie) s’ well, 

There (hie) may per (hie) ’aps in such (hie) a scene, 

Some recol (hie) ’ections be 
Of clays (hie) that have so ha-ap-py been (hie) 

An’ you (hie)’ll remember me, 

An’ you’ll (hie) remem (hie) remember me.” 

“ Come, come !” said the conductor, tapping him on 
the shoulder, “ you must be quiet.” 

“ ’S all ri’ ’ductor ! ’S all ri’ ! I aint drunk, ’s only a 
lillul full — ge’ full yessel somsti’ — do same by you when 
’er full — I’se rode on sis car fourteen years, ’ductor — 
grandsfarzer was ’ductor — you’re mi’hy good ’ductor — 
mos’ good ’s yer gransfarzer — ’member yer grans- 
farzer ’ductor — gransf arzm^d uctor — gransfarzar was 
’ductor sis car when I’se t*p” He rose from his seat 
to embrace the conductor who pushed him back ex- 
claiming, 

“ Oh, you shut up, do yer hear ! I was born in Tiffin, 
Ohio, an’ haven’t been on this road six weeks.” 

“ Mus’er been yer grandsfarzer, ’ductor. Mus’er 
been yer grandsfarzer,” murmured the tipsy man as 
he sank back into the corner. 

“ He’ll be all right, madam,” the conductor re- 
marked to the spinster. “ He won’t hurt nobody, an’ 
if lie gets troublesome I’ll put him out.” 

’S all ri,’ lady. ’S all ri.’ Won’t hurt nobody. 
Won’t hurt a hair of yer head !” and he beamed with 
drunken benevolence upon all the passengers, while 
the conductor went on to the front platform to inter- 
view the driver. 

“ Confound this delay !” said the tall man. “ One 
could almost indulge in strong language.” 

“ It would be tall swearing if you did,” said 
Foerster. 

“ You’re mistaken,” rejoined the tall man, jingling 
the change in his pocket. “ I’m a short cuss to-night.” 

“ O, think how bad that pun was !” cried the doc- 
tor. 


10 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ D' you rattle on always in this style ?” asked the 
passenger wjtli the law papers. 

“ Some one ought to dam this stream of talk,” said 
the doctor. 

“ Say, where are you going to stop?” exclaimed 
Foerster. 

“ When he can find proof an ’ it is admitted !” re- 
plied the lawyer clerk. 

“ Wha’ ’s yer fellows talkin’n ’bout?” interposed 
the tipsy passenger. 

“ You’ll have to get out an’ start her up, gentle- 
men,” said the conductor returning from his survey of 
the situation. 

Without demur the passengers buttoned up their 
overcoats, turned up the bottoms of their trousers and 
filed out into the snow. 

“ Where ’s yer goin’ ?” asked the tipsy passenger, 
as the tall man passed him. 

“Out to shove,” an s^fl&r ed that passenger briefly, 
as he passed on. 

“ ’S I’ll go too ! Set ’em up ’gen !” and the tipsy 
man followed him out, tumbling into the snow, as he 
stepped from the platform. 

“ Snow, snow, boo’ful snow,” he ^exclaimed as he 
picked himself up. “ Say, ’ductor, d’ye know I’se se 
auser Boo’ful Snow ?” 

A general laughter followed and the passengers put 
their shoulders to the car and rammed it up against 
the recalcitrant horses. They progressed this way for 
about a hundred feet, and then one\>f the horses re- 
fused to move further. 

“ Wha’ se masser now?’' queried the tipsy pas- 
senger. 

“ Balky horse,” the conductor answered laconically. 

The passengers went forward and ranged themselves 
about the stubborn animal, the drunken man standing 
near his head, profoundly regarding him. 

“ Horses drunk !” he exclaimed finally. 

A peal of laughter arose from the other men and the 
tipsy passenger, finding the labor of maintaining an 
upright position irksome, quietly sat down in the 
snow. 

Then it was discovered that each man had a remedy 


WHAT HAPPENED IN A STREET CAR. 11 

for balking 1 . The physician rubbed the horse’s spine 
the wrong way with a stick, the lawyer’s clerk twisted 
the horse’s ears, Foerster made a ball of snow and 
stuck it into the horse’s mouth, the conductor whipped 
him on the forelegs, the Dutchman prodded him on 
the funny bone with an umbrella, and the tall man 
twisted the scant tail. 

It had become a regular frolic, and, as if their merri- 
ment was contagious, even the horse did not seem to 
be ill-natured, though he stubbornly refused to go on. 

“It’s besser to laugh zan be sighin’ !” quoted the 
tipsy passenger, as from his seat in the snow he calmly 
regarded the performance. 

Finding, however, that all their efforts were of no 
avail, the passengers returned to the car to debate 
upon their future course. As they entered it the tipsy 
passenger made a grab for the strap, but missing it 
sat down in the fat Dutchman’s lap. 

“ Ach mein goot gracious! Vat for you do tat?” 
cried the Dutchman; and as he spoke he drew from 
his capacious pocket a brown paper parcel, which he 
began to open heedless of the profuse apologies of the 
tipsy man who had struggled to his feet. A strong, 
penetrating odor permeated the car as the covering 
of the parcel was unrolled and there disclosed to the 
view of all the passengers a fragrant piece of Lim- 
burger cheese, which had been crushed out of its proper 
shape by the tipsy man’s weight. 

“ Ach mein Gott !” the Dutchman cried as he viewed 
the mangled form of his dainty tie! -bit. “ See, vat you 
haf tone !” he continued, shaking the cheese at the 
author of the mischief. 

“ Put it on the roof of the car and we’ll have the 
health department here in an hour,” said the tall man. 

“ Neiii ! I vas keep him for mein breakfast,” answered 
the Dutchman as he slowly rolled it up again and re- 
stored it to his pocket. 

“ And as for you,” said the conductor to the tipsy 
man, putting him into his corner, “you sit there till 
I tell you to get up.” 

“ ’S* all ri’, ’ductor ! ’S all ri’ ! Knew yer grans- 
farzer — rode on sis car wiz er gransfarzer fifteen year, 


n 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


’ductor,” and lifting up his voice he began to sing 
again: 

Gransfarzer’s clock (hie) ’s too tall for ze shelf, 

So it stood for (liic) ty years on ze door, (hie) 

It was taller by half zan (hie) ze ol’ man hisself, 

But it (hie) weighed not a pennyweight more—' 

Say (hie) ’ductor, waser pennyweight? 

Twas bought on (hie) ze morn of ze day he was born 

Guess I lef (hie) out suthin.’ Tick, tick tick, tick 

tick, (hie) tick tick ” 

Nobody had paid him any attention as long as he had 
been singing, but now as his words died away in mo- 
notonous 4 4 tick tick/’ all with one accord turned 

their eyes toward him. He had risen to his feet and 
was vainly endeavoring to open the door. 

The conductor sprang for him and forced him back 
into his seat, but the tipsy man struggled to get up, 
exclaiming, “ Lemme out! Lemme out! I’se got ’em 
’gen ! Got ’em ’gen ! 

The passengers looked in the direction of his gaze, 
and their eyes fell upon the bundle upon the seat next 
to the spinster. What they saw was astounding. 
The bundle seemed to have grown to twice its normal 
size, and the paper was pushed up around the strings 
as if to buiy them from sight, while from tiny cracks 
were slowly oozing thin, curling streams of a tenacious, 
whitey-brown substance, squirming and twisting like 
so many worms, or bulging out like warts or blisters. 
The whole parcel seemed to be alive with these ani- 
mated excrescences and was actually forced into mo- 
tion by the movement of those between it and the 
seat. 

44 Great heavens, madam ! what have you got 
there ? ” exclaimed the physician. 

To the horror of everyone, the spinster immediately 
grabbed the repulsive thing, and plucking off the ex- 
crescences, crushed them in a ball in her hand, and 
when that was accomplished she searched for the knot, 
and having found and untied it, began to remove the 
string. 

44 Reckon you men don’t know much about house- 
keeping,” she said calmly, as she removed the paper 
coverings. 44 It’s only a hunk of dough , and ain’t go- 
ing to pisen any one, 1 guess.” 


WHAT HAPPENED IN A STREET CAR. 13 

“ Dough !” said Foerster. “ What a curious way 
to carry it?” 

“Well,” the spinster replied, “ I guess one way’s 
good’s another. You see, gentlemen, I was down 
visitin’ Anna Mariah— she’s my niece— an’ Anna Mariah 
had some yeast that she set a great store by, an’ she 
jest give me a lump o’ dough to kerry home. I kal- 
kilated thet as the night was so cold ’twouldn’t rise 
none till I got hum, but I reckon the heat of thet ere 
stove must ha’ started it.” 

It certainly had started, and so effectually that 
there was no stopping it, so it was put to one side 
to work away at its own sweet will. 

The prolonged period of unseasonable wakefulness 
had fretted the baby, and its whimpers now turned 
into yells, which its young mother ineffectually tried 
to hush. In vain she danced and patted it ; the more 
she tried to hush it the more it cried. 

Now if there is one thing which is particularly irri- 
tating* to the masculine temper it is a crying child, 
and the good humor with which the belated travelers 
had accepted their unpleasant predicament was rapid- 
ly being exchanged for morose impatience. The poor, 
young mother, herself tired and fatigued, redoubled 
her endeavors as she saw the gathering frowns, but 
her efforts were still unavailing. 

The tipsy man, who after the explanation of the 
dough had fallen into a doze, now roused himself and 
remarked gravely that the baby was “drunk,” but 
the remark, which a little while ago might have 
elicited merriment, now served only to deepen the 
gloom. There is no telling what unpleasantness might 
have followed if the tall man had not reached for- 
ward and quietly taken the child from its mother’s 
arms. 

Now everyone acquainted with the habits of young 
children knows that when a stranger takes a baby 
to his arms the youngster either redoubles its uproar, 
or else becomes perfectly quiet from sheer astonish- 
ment. Fortunately this child adopted the latter alter- 
native, and seated on the tall passenger’s knee, gazed 
at him with amazement. He tossed it up and down, 
held it out at arm’s length, and when it showed signs 


14 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


of beginning* its wails again, he pulled out his watch 
and let it play with it. 

So the baby grew quite amiable again, and even 
went so far in condescension as to call the tall passen- 
ger, “ Popper a proceeding which elicited certain 
sly winks and smiles from the male passengers and 
restored good nature. Still they were stuck in the 
snow, and that was, of itself, by no means a provoca- 
tive of merriment. 

The doctor gravely proposed that the conductor 
should proceed to the stables at the end of the line 
and procure a fresh team of horses ; but that official, 
not desiring the long, cold walk of two miles through 
the snow, promptly replied that he coutd not leave 
the car, and had no other suggestion to offer than 
that they should wait where they were until they 
were sent after. The passengers themselves had sim- 
ilar objections to proceeding on foot, and as long as 
the supply of fuel for the stove held out, preferred the 
warm car to the cold, windy street. 

Fortunately at this juncture there came the well- 
known sound of the gong of a fire-engine, and looking- 
out of the rear windows, the passengers saw the 
machine approaching them. The balky horse, like- 
wise, pricked up his ears at the sound, and calmly 
turned his drooping head around and surveyed the 
approaching monster. Whether the incident caused 
him to forget his former reluctance to proceed, or 
whether the appearance of the fiery apparition con- 
vinced him that he had better get out of its way is un- 
certain, but, whatever the reason, the fact is that he sud- 
denly started and joined with his mate in making wild 
plunges ahead, starting the car with such a sudden 
jerk that the passengers found themselves piled into a 
heap at the rear end. They picked themselves up with 
several iokes about the mishap, almost forgetting 
to grumole in the delight of being once more in mo- 
tion. 

The engine, pouring clouds of black smoke and 
showers of sparks from its chimney, came tearing 
after them, the strong Norman horses plunging 
through the drifts and straining every muscle as they 
pursued the horse-car. So they proceeded until with 


LILLIAN. 


1 « 


a sudden jerk and swerve that nearly threw the driv- 
er oh his feet, the car turned into the stables and the 
journey was ended. 

One by one the passengers alighted and departed to 
their homes — the old maid with her bundle of dough, 
the young mother and her baby, and the fat Dutch- 
man with his Limburger cheese. The doctor was 
speedily ploughing his way to his waiting patient, and 
the timid young maiden had consented to be escorted 
to her home by the lawyer’s clerk. The tipsy passen- 
ger alone remained , and as he finally disappeared 
in the driving snow, the wind bore back the refrain : 

“ ’S all ri’, ’ducter ! ’S all ri ’ ! I ’member yer 
gransfarzer !” 

John Foerster and the tall man still lingered. The 
latter was interrogating the conductor : 

“ So thece is no hotel hereabout, conductor ?” 

“Navv.” 

“ And no car back to the city before six o’clock ?” 

“ Raw.” 

“ Well, then, my boy,” said the tall traveler turning 
to John Foerster, “ since you say that your landlady 
keeps a boarding-house, I shall have to trespass upon 
her hospitality. So lead on, I’ll follow.” 

This was the first meeting between John Foerster 
and Douglas Egerton — a lucky one for the former, 
since Egerton never thereafter lost track of him, but 
assisted him to push his way in the world until the 
fortunes of the two were intertwined, as shall appear 
further on. 

What Douglas Egerton was doing in this out-of-the- 
way part of the world was never known. Later on 
the reader may be able to make a shrewd surmise of 
the nefarious business which led him thither. 


CHAPTER II. 

LILLIAN. 

They called her Lillian, but she might as well have 
been called “Poor Thing,” for those were the words 
which greeted her when she was ushered into the 


16 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


world, the words which were applied to her frequently 
while she lived, and. men spoke them over her, as it 
were, in requiem, when she was dead. Everyone with- 
in this world must hear his share of woe, but some- 
times it has seemed as if the sum of sorrows which she 
bore was greater than her portion. 

Her father, John Riching, was a clerk in the employ 
of the United States. There had been a change of ad- 
ministration shortly before she was born, and on the 
day when first she saw the light, John Riching had 
found upon his desk the fatal envelope that enclosed 
his dismissal. Poor man ! its color told him its mes- 
sage before he tore it open, and his heart, already 
downcast, sank lower as he beheld it. What can be 
heavier than a heavy heart ! What more cruel than 
a blow which strikes through us at those whom we 
love ! 

No wonder he was downcast, for he knew that be- 
fore he returned at night another child might be added 
to the number of sickly little ones at home. Five deli- 
cate children and a sickly wife to support, and only 
the meagre salary of a clerkship in the Custom House 
to pay the landlord, and the butcher, and the baker, 
and to provide for the multitudinous needs of a large 
family ! Even the severest economy had heretofore 
barely compassed the task, and now there was added 
another mouth to feed, and another form to clothe just 
as the overstrained income stopped entirely — for the 
end of the month would witness the last payment 
which the Government would make to him, and after 
that he must find some other employment, or he and 
his must starve. When he thought of this, John 
Riching placed his hands over his eyes as if to shut 
out some terrible vision. 

Oh rich people — oh people of “ moderate means” — 
do you realize what it is to starve ! You men who 
think yourselves hardly used if a pressure of business 
induces you to go without a lunch, or a fit of economy 
leads you to dine at a cheaper restaurant than usual — 
do you know what starvation is — to go day after day 
haunted by the grim gnawing of hunger that weakens 
body and mind and soul— to hear the wailings of chil- 
dren as they beg for food which you cannot give them — 


LILLIAN. 


17 


to see them growing- day by day more pinched, more 
wan and more emaciated and to know all the while 
that they are starving? You read of such things and 
a tear moistens your eye and you praise the art of the 
writer. You hear of such things and you smile in- 
credulously and say they cannot be ! But the stern, 
sad, terrible reality you have never known, and 
you will not contemplate ! Keep your hearts locked 
if you will, but open your purses and you will find 
starving children in every street of this great city ! 

Yet such a picture arose, as if by magic, before the 
eyes of John Riching when his glance fell upon that 
fatal envelope lying on his desk. Such a picture ling- 
ered in his mind through the day as he wearily wrote 
down column after column of figures, and such a pic- 
ture took more definite shape and form when he reach- 
ed his home at evening and found a wee, small girl in 
the old cradle and his wife lying lifeless on the bed. 

“ Poor thing !” he said as he looked at her, and de- 
spite his heavy heart, he bent down and kissed her. 
Oh wonderful, wonderful parental love — the one thing 
common alike to beasts and men and God ! 

The motherless little one, who had entered the world 
at so inopportune a time, and to whom the mother had 
indeed imparted her very life, was baptized by the 
name of Lillian — the mother’s name — and grew up, 
amid all the adverse circumstances of poverty, until 
she reached the age of fourteen years. Long before 
that period, however, the other Riching children had 
ceased to struggle with the world, and had yielded 
them selves as victims to the vicissitudes of life. One 
by one their little lives had flickered and gone out like 
tapers in a storm, and one by one" the lifeless 
bodies in wooden coffins were borne away and laid in 
nameless graves in the paupers’ burial ground. 

There is but little which excites deep feeling in a 
pauper’s burial. Poverty robs death of its pathos and 
its pageantry. Scant ceremony is performed, few 
prayers are said over these superfluous scions of hu- 
manity. A shabby coach, the plain deal box in front 
with the driver, the windows filled with eager faces of 
children — watching the sights, forgetful of their grief 
in the pleasure of the unaccustomed ride — this was all 


18 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


the pomp that death yielded to Poverty as he carried 
oil the Etching children. A few kind-hearted neighbors 
had come in to take their last look at the dead, to utter 
their few unpolished phrases of sympathy to the be- 
reaved father, and to pat the little girl upon the head, 
remarking to each other as they did so, “ She -too 
will go soon, poor thing !” 

So Lillian and her father — the little child old be3 T ond 
her years, the feeble man aged by his misfortunes, 
shrunken and bent by his burden of sorrows — were left 
at last alone to keep each other company. The father 
gained a precarious livelihood from clerkships, chang- 
ing from one house to another, sometimes suffering all 
the privations of poverty and at other times — more 
few, alas — enjoying comparative affluence. 

She was a f rail, wee, stunted thing, looking more like 
a child of four years old than her true age, which was 
double that, — as if nature with her divine faculty of 
adaptation had suited the child’s body to the nourish- 
ment it would receive. As the years went by her 
character began to develop. She was ever quiet and 
subdued and patient so that it seemed as if the same 
beneficent power that regulated her growth had given 
her a mind fitted to bear the burdens of her life un- 
questioningly and without complaining. When the 
days were warm' she would patiently await her father’s 
return in their own dingy, cheerless room — when the 
season was cold a small payment secured her a wait- 
ing place in the warmer room of a scarcely less poor 
neighbor. 

Yet she was not unhappy during those long hours 
of solitude. The quick fancy of childhood invested the 
most common things with attractions, and when she 
was tired with her play there were many simple little 
household duties which she could perform. Happy are 
those natures which intuitively seek to extract some 
pleasure from every employment, however irksome it 
intrinsically may be — to gather little joys from every 
drudgery and each repulsive task — as the bees gather 
honey amid the thorns of flowers and the stings of 
nettles. 

In those early years the little child showed a won- 
derful love of color. Bits of bright-hued rags were her 


LILLIAN. 


10 


favorite playthings. She would spend the hours of 
her father’s absence in arranging them in different 
combinations. When she was tired of that she would 
look out of the window ; and when both of these oc- 
cupations failed of amusement she would quietly fold 
her hands and wait. Many a passer-by, seeing the 
quaint, quiet figure in the window and noting the 
pathetic face with its look of patient waiting and sub- 
dued expectancy would mutter bo himself, and sigh 
without knowing why, “ Poor thing !” For if the 
past leaves on our faces traces of years gone by, with 
all their sorrows and fears and* joys, the future some- 
times seems likewise to foreshadow on our counte- 
nances a mystic prophecy of the weal or woe that life 
is to bring to us — and Lillian Ricliing’s face seemed to 
foretell that sadness and weariness would be her lot in 
life. 

There is a sweet influence of love which lets us share, 
intuitively, the moods, the joys and sorrows, of 
those near and dear to us ; so the little child cheered 
her father when he was sad ; shared with him such 
joys as entered their melancholy lives, and was 
silent when silence was the greatest sympathy. The 
broken, white-haired, old man had now but two con- 
solations — his daughter and his violin. 

In the evenings, when their frugal supper had been 
eaten, Lillian would quietly seat herself at his feet and 
he would take the old violin and the fragile bow and 
proceed to draw forth sounds which they both loved 
to hear — scraps of melodies which he had learned in 
days past, fragments of hymn tunes, snatches of airs 
which he had caught from itinerant organ grinders. 
He was no great musician and the old violin was but a 
second-rate instrument — but the old man and the child 
thought that no music could be sweeter. And when 
at soberer times he took her on his knee and told her 
about the angels, she thought that the music that they 
made upon their harps must be like the music of the 
old violin. 

But the day came when the old man followed his 
wife and children, and the child that was left behind 
was consigned to the charitable care of the orphan asy- 
lum. 


20 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


She clung witn the franticness of despair to the dead 
body of her lifeless father, and sobbed with grief and 
loneliness for*days after they had torn her away and 
sent her to her future home. Only when there was 
service in the chapel of the asylum and the sweet tones 
of the organ floated upon her hearing, would she seem 
to forget her grief. Poor thing ! Her father had 
been the one sole object to love that life had given her 
— her sole companion and playmate. Perhaps, too, 
her tears were tributes to those dead brothers and sis- 
ters — for who can say when the memory of a child be- 
gins or what events are most remembered by it. 

For seven years Lillian Riching remained in the 
orphan asylum. She was totally alone. Other chil- 
dren had friends who came to see them, or friends who 
remembered them from time to time, but she seemed 
to be forgotten by the outer world. She remained still 
of smaller stature than other children of her age, and 
indeed all through her life she was a small woman. 

At the age of fifteen she was sent forth from the 
asylum as a shop girl. The sisters, in whose charge 
she had been, did what they could for her in finding 
this position and by securing her a cheap lodging in a 
decent house. Beyond that their power did not go, 
and she was but one of many who claim their attention 
and their time. 

Lillian had made no friends while in the asylum. She 
was a shy, shrinking, little body who kept as much as 
possible apart from other children. All the gayety of 
life seemed to have been left out of her nature ; or per- 
haps light-heartedness requires ease to grow upon, and 
heaven knows, there had been no ease in Lillian Rich- 
ing’s life. Yet she was not without a love of beautiful 
things. Her keen appreciation of the various shades 
of colors and a wise taste in the arrangement of them, 
had led the sisters to choose for her this place in a 
dressmaker’s establishment ; and though at first her 
work was merely the mechanical labor of a messenger 
girl, and subsequently of an ordinary seamstress, this 
faculty of distinguishing and combining colors soon 
asserted itself, and she was often called up for con- 
sultation and advice. 

But the happiest times were those when she was sent 


LILLIAN. 


21 

to the houses of the rich, for there, though she was 
treated as a servant, she had sometimes the oppor- 
tunity of feasting her eyes on beautiful things. Quiet, 
unobtrusive, and a quick worker as she was, she soon 
became in demand for home-sewing among the patrons 
of the shop where she was employed, and her life be- 
came easier, as it was divided between sqch work out- 
side, and the designing and arranging in the store. 

Quiet and self-restrained as she was, she loved chi!- 
bren, and though her own childhood had been so 
barren of all pleasure, she seemed to have the faculty 
of amusing and entertaining the little ones ; and 
when the scene of her labors combined the presence of 
children, and the sight of pretty things, her happiness 
was complete. There was one house in particular 
where Lillian found this combination, and that was 
the home of Percy Roland. It was a grand mansion 
on Fifth avenue ; but when of a morning the. little 
seamstress turned the corner of the street from her 
own modest home on First avenue, her steps quick- 
ened and her heart grew lighter as she approached 
nearer to the tall, brown structure. And Lillian’s 
heart was tender, despite the cruel adversities of want 
and woe that had been her portion ; for, when misery 
does not harden, it softens, and makes the soul more 
gentle. 

It is strange how often a love of children is, in a 
woman’s breast, combined with a love of all that is 
fair and beautiful in art ! It is not so with men. 
They differ from the other sex in this, as in so many 
other things. Perhaps the reason may be, who knows, 
that on every woman’s nature is ingrafted that sweet- 
est of all God’s gifts, a natural motherhood, which is 
lacking to man’s coarser, sterner fiber. 

So, when the great house came in sight, Lillian’s 
pulses quickened as she thought of the childish voices 
that echoed through those wide halls, and of the child- 
ish faces that would break into sunshiny smiles when 
she appeared. The monotonous labor of the day was 
forgotten in such thoughts. She knew that an hour 
was allotted to her at noon-time for rest, that one 
quarter of this would suffice for her luncheon, and that 
she could devote the remaining three quarters to the 


22 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


children. Though her employer sent her to many an- 
other house, where the appointments were equally 
grand, none could, in her estimation, compare with 
the Rolands’. It may be a question which she loved 
best, children or the beautiful luxuries of art, which 
wealth commanded ; but there could be no question 
that the combination of the two were far better than 
either alone. At all events, the children' loved her, 
and at the Rolands “ little Miss Lillian ” was a prime 
favorite. 

Now, it so happened that one day she was alone in 
the nursery with the Roland children. It was only a 
little past noon, but she had already been down to the 
servants’ hall and hurried through her luncheon. She 
was too insignificant to be missed, and none remarked 
upon her absence when she left the table and hurried 
upstairs, that she might devote the remainder of her 
leisure to the children, without encroaching upon the 
hours allotted to work. 

The nursemaid in charge was by no means loth that 
such should be the case, since it permitted her to go 
downstairs ; so when Lillian opened the nursery door, 
and asked if she might might come in, Nurse answer- 
ed, in a very gratified tone : 

“ Oh, yes, Miss Lillian ! An’ wud ye moind the 
childers fur a few minutes, while I stip down an’ git 
me lunch ?” 

“ Of course I will,” Lillian answered, as she plump- 
ed down upon the floor, in order to kiss the baby who 
had been crawling about, but now, on her appearance, 
lay upon his back, stretching his fat, little arms up at 
her. “ Of course I will, and be more happy in doing 
so than ever before.” 

“Sure, miss, an’ if ye wull, I’ll be obligated to ye,” 
said the nurse. “ An’ ef ye’re awantin me,” she added, 
“ef ye’ll ring yander bell. I’ll be roight up.” 

“ Now, children,” Lillian said, as the youngsters 
came flocking about her, “now, children, do you want 
to hear a story ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” they cried, in chorus. 

“ What shall it be, then ?” she asked. “ Shall I tell 
you ‘ The Man with the Red Stockings,’ or ‘ The En- 
chanted Princess ?’” 


LILLIAN. 


23 


Some were in favor of one, some were in favor of the 
other ; but the majority approffed of “ The Enchanted 
Princess,” and that delectable story was duly told. 

Then, as a relief for the quiet which had been enfc^- 
ed during* the narration of that thrilling* tale, there 
followed a game of romps, in which Lillian per- 
sonated a lion, and on her hands and knees pur- 
sued the little ones, who with merry cries and 
laughter, attacked her on all sides. So intent was she 
on this amusement that she did not notice that the 
nursery door had opened, and that the tall, sinewy 
figure of a young man stood in the doorway, regard- 
ing her with an amused smile. The children spied him 
first, and with glad cries of “ Cousin Willie,” sprang* 
for him. He kissed them and tossed them in the air, 
and then, panting and smiling, turned towards the 
quaint figure on the floor. 

Lillian, at this time, had reached the age of eighteen 
years, but she was still small and slight. Trouble and 
care had given an elderly appearance to her face, 
strangely at variance with her youthful form. But, 
latterly, as life had been less hard, the curves of her 
face had grown more plump and the outlines of her 
body more rounded. A first glance, and her figure 
seemed a child's.; a second, and it was too mature for 
childhood. Her chief beauty was her hair, and in the 
romp this had become loosened from its bands, and 
now it fell about her in loose, curling* masses of golden 
brown. Her face was not without a simple, quiet 
kind of loveliness, which could ripen and deepen under 
more favorable circumstances into beauty. Tn their 
play, one of the children had thrown a many-colored 
baby quilt over her, and she, laughing, had twisted it 
into a turban and placed it on her head. 

While Willie Randolph stood near the door, with the 
children clustered about him, Lillian sat upon the 
floor, looking up at him through the disheveled, curl- 
ing masses of beautiful, brown hair, crowned with the 
fantastic turban of bright colors, while the exercise of 
the game, and surprise at his appearance, had caused 
her usually pale cheeks to be suffused with blushes. 

“ Do not let me interrupt you,” he exclaimed, ‘ pray 
go on with your play, and let me be one of the children. 


24 


THE UNPARDONABLE -SIN. 


“ Oh, es, Tousin Willie; oo he big lion an’ Miss 
Lillian be ’ittle lion !!’ cried one of the children. 

“ Miss Lillian,” Willie Randolph thought to him- 
self, “then she is not a new nurse, as I had supposed 
♦-probably a governess, poor thing.” 

But Lillian had risen from her recumbent position, 
and having rung the bell for Nurse, was now striving 
as best she might to replace in proper order the long, 
thick masses of hair. She could not leave the room 
until Nurse returned, therefore she could not yield to 
her wild impulse to fly out of sight. 

“ I am sorry to have interrupted you,” he continu- 
ed, after a pause, and growing more curious to hear 
her voice. “ I trust that I do not intrude ?” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, blushing yet more deeply. 
“ Nurse had gone downstairs for a few minutes, 
and 1 was keeping the children quiet until she re- 
turned.” 

“Well,” he replied, the same amused smile creeping 
again over his face, “ if by keeping them quiet you 
mean making the house echo with shouts of childish 
laughter, I can testify that you succeeded ; for, when 
I was told at the door that all the family were put, I 
was tempted, by the sounds I heard, to make my way 
into the nursery, little dreaming that I was about to 
enter a lion’s den.” 

She was smiling now, in spite of her desire to keep a 
calm face, and he continued : 

“ The children have partly told you who I am by 
calling me Cousin Willie. I must continue the intro- 
duction by announcing that my name is William Ran- 
dolph, and that Mr. Percy Roland is my cousin, and 
was my guardian, and that I make this house my 
home when I am in the city. And now, may 1 ask 
you to tell me who you might be ?” 

“ Miss Lillian’s a lion,” broke in one of the youth- 
ful Rolands. “ Miss Lillian, woar !” 

“ I am seamstress from Madame Schnitzer’s, sir,” 
she replied, as greatly to her relief Nurse entered, and 
permitted her to make her escape. 

“Lor’, Master Willie,” said Nurse, as panting from 
her ascent of the stairs, she found breath enough to 
greet her visitor, “lor’, Master Willie, whoever would 


25 


WILLIE RANDOLPH^ WOOING. 

’a thought of seein’ ye here at this toime o’ day! Sure, 
I hope ye’re well, sir?” 

44 Pretty well, thank you, Ann,” he responded, and 
then he proceeded to interrogate her about 4 4 Miss 
Lillian.” 


CHAPTER III. 
willie Randolph’s wooing. 

44 How strange it is !” says some literary student of 
human nature, moralizing over the potentiality of trif- 
ling incidents. 44 How strange it is ! We see a million 
faces, we hear a million voices, we meet a million men, 
with smiles upon their faces, soft words upon their 
lips, and light in their fair eyes, and they do not 
touch us. Then we see one , and he holds for us life or 
death ; and, smiling upon us all the while, he plays 
with us idly — as idly as a child with his toys. He 
may stay with us, or he may go far away from us, but 
henceforth the whole wide world holds for us only one 
man !” 

And now, this one man had crossed Lillian Riching’s 
path of life. Her heart had gone out to him, as he 
had stood there looking so strong and noble. Her 
life had been all matter of fact, this was the one gleam 
of romance which had shone into it, and her woman’s 
nature grasped it, as the starving man grasps a crust, 
or the drowning man a straw. 

A woman needs some one to cling to, some one about 
whom her heart- tendrils may twine, and whom she 
may lean against if her spirit be faint and weary. 
And, when the right man comes, she falls down and 
worships him, and invests him with all the attributes 
of a god ; and if he never comes, she takes one man 
from the life about her, perhaps the most unworthy and 
most weak, and with the magic of her heart-hunger 
clothes him with all the attributes of a human divin- 
ity. 

As Lillian thought over Willie Randolph that after- 
noon and recalled the way that he had looked as he stood 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


26 

in the doorway regarding’ her, the world seemed a 
fairer, pleasanter place. Her eyes kindled with a sub- 
dued light, and delicate flushes of color fluttered upon 
her cheeks, as she bent down over her sewing ; and 
sometimes she smiled softly to herself, and lifted her 
eyes to look out of the window, quite absently. Yes, 
she thought of him by day, dreamed of him by night ; 
then waked, and slept again to dream of him once 
more. 

She met him many times after that. He seemed to 
search her out, to seek for her presence ; and she be- 
gan to watch for his coming, as a flower is said to watch 
for the rising of the sun. 

Somehow she changed in those days. Her face still 
looked too old for her years, and she still had that 
quietness of manner and movement which it is hard to 
associate with childishness ; but a little dimple, which 
no one had noticed before, began to make itself appar- 
ent in her chin ; and her eyes and her lips, the alert- 
ness of her step and the joy of her smile, were all 
daintily, delicately young. Her dress had never been 
careless but rather characterless, but now, though she 
wore the same old, dark gowns, there was here and 
there a knot or bow of bright-liued ribbon that 
lent a dash of color to her otherwise sombre ap- 
parel. 

And as she loved — for she did love — it seemed as if 
her keen appreciation of music and color deepened and 
expanded. He, too, the man who had the keeping of 
her heart — he, too, was fond of the things that she 
loved. He was himself a musician, and when he found 
out that she loved music and flowers, sent her tickets 
for concerts and operas and once in a while a bunch 
of fragrant roses. She treasured these flowers till 
they faded and died — she gathered their leaves and 
pressed them between the pages of her Bible, and 
strangers found them in after years, and, fa inti 3^ dis- 
cerning that they had made part of the romance of 
her life, muttered, as they thought of her and flung the 
dried leaves away, “ Poor Thing !” 

The warm, glad days of Spring and Summer and 
Autumn came and went, and at Christmas time it was 
arranged that the Roland children were to spend a few 


WILLIE RANDOLPH'S WOOING. 27 

days in the snow-clad country. At Nurse's solicita- 
tion Lillian was sent with her to aid in taking* care 
of the little ones. It was the first time that she had 
visited the country in winter time. The wonderful 
glories of the ice and snow enchanted, while the vast, 
unbroken expanse of white, awed and frightened her. 
Often while the children took their afternoon naps she 
would wander away from the house into the solitude 
of the winter world. 

One afternoon she walked over the snow-covered 
fields, drinking in rapture as the sunbeams glistened 
and sparkled on the snow crystals about her path. 
There were dark clouds scurrying up from the North, 
but she took no note of them. The air had that deep 
stillness which betokens the coming storm, and the 
wonderful silence, in which Nature rests on some few 
winter days, was unbroken. 

Upon such days it is hard to think that Nature only 
sleeps. When the snow comes falling down in feath- 
ery flakes — when the wind blows and sways the 
branches of the trees, or drives the snow crystals in 
drifts before it — there is motion, not incompatible with 
the idea of life or sleep ; but when all is hushed in that 
deep calm that never comes save on a winter’s day or 
night — when one stands alone, amid the snow-clad 
fields, out of sight and sound of human habitation— 
Nature seems not sleeping, but dead. 

Lillian walked on until the ground sloped downwards 
and she stood on the brink of a ravine. She halted, 
awed and almost breathless with the beauty of the 
scene. The leafless trees about her stretched their 
grey limbs heavenward, as if in mute appeal for their 
lost beauty ; the snow at her feet was checkered by 
quilted arabesques as the sun threw the dark shadows 
of the twigs and branches over it ; below her in the 
glen a brook ran— in summer spreading into limpid 
pools or narrowing into rippling rapids, as it flowed 
downward through glades and hollows, to the great 
river miles away — now it was silent in the icy fetters 
of hoary winter ; the ice crystals caught the slanting 
sunbeams, as they streamed down through the interlac- 
ing branches of the trees, and sent them glinting back 
into the air in specks of radiant color. 


28 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


She stood spellbound for some time, her soul drink- 
ing- in the beauty of the scene. Then she wondered 
whether *she could not climb down. The banks were 
not very steep and the snow would save her if she fell, 
and so she thoug-ht that she would try. Slowly and 
cautiously she began to clamber down, sustaining- her- 
self by the overhanging branches and by the bushes 
which protruded above the snow. She had nearly 
reached the bottom when a branch, which she had 
grasped, broke under her weight and she slid forward 
over the snow and would have fallen into the water, 
had not a strong arm wound itself about her and 
gently lifted her down to the icy margin of the stream, 
and a soft voice whispered in her ear : 

“ Lillian !’ ’ 

No need was there for her to raise her eyes tfc see 
who had saved her from an ugly wetting. She knew 
that voice only too well. It thrilled through her and 
through every nerve of her body and made her tremble 
with a glad delight. 

“ Lillian, my angel !” the voice said, “ tell me that 
you knew that I passed here ?” 

She struggled to get free and cried still tremb- 
ling: 

“ Oh, let me go ! Please, let me go !” 

“ Never, now that I have caught you. Look at me, 
speak to me, Lillian !” 

She neither looked at him nor spoke — and the next 
moment she was free. Her face was flushed and her 
bosom rose and fell swiftly, and her lips quivered as 
she now gazed at him full in the face. 

He smiled — the old smile that she knew so well — and 
said gently as he stretched forth his hand, “ Come 
here.” 

You have no right to treat me so!” she cried 
flushing passionately. 

“ But I love you,” he said in his softest, sweetest 
tones. “ Come,” and he held out his arms caressing- 
ly, “come and tell me that you love me a little 
also.” 

She stood silent and he moved closer to her and 
continued : 

“ Speak to me, Lillian, tell me that you love me,” 


WILLIE RANDOLPH’S WOOING. 


29 


She raised her eyes to his, he read her answer in 
them, and he stooped low and kissed her. 

•‘Mr. Randolph she began, but he stopped 

her. 

“ Let it be Willie,” he said, “ at least when we are 
alone tog-ether.” 

“Willie!” she said, speaking* the name with lip's 
that trembled yet with girlish shyness and timidity. 
“ But what will your family say ?” 

“ There will be no need to tell them,” he said softly 
in his sweetest tones. ‘ ‘ Let us love each other alone for 
a little while. You must trust me as I trust you. If 
you love me you will wish your soul — ay, and your 
very being— to blend with mine —your life to become 
part mine — you would live and breathe with me — your 
Lfe would be as nothing apart from me — if you loved 
me as I love you !” 

He spoke passionately, she felt his warm breath 
upon her cheek, she felt the strong pressure of his em- 
brace and she leaned her head upon his breast and 
sobbed quietly for very happiness. 

It was only for an instant that she yielded to the 
glamour of his wooing, then she started away from 
him and cried : 

“ Oh, do not tempt me for I am weak ! Do not 
speak so again to me ! Our lives are so different— 
yours and mine would never blend ! Our ways lie 
so far apart, let us forget that we have ever 
met !” 

“Do not send me away,” he pleaded. “We may love, 
though the world would never be the wiser for it. 
Trust me as I wish and all your life will be so differ- 
ent. But send me away and you doom yourself to 
bitter poverty and me to hopeless love.” 

She made no answer, but he saw that she trembled 

“You will break my heart if you send me away 
now,” he continued. “ If you love me you will make 
any sacrifice for me. But if you love me not, then 
let me go away for I could not meet you again !” 

She gazed on him with wide opened, wondering eyes 
as if not fully comprehending the full import of 'his 
words. She could not bid him now to go away. She 
realized that her whole heart and soul were bound up 


30 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


in him. Hot tears started to her eyes as with a sob 
she said : 

“You are cruel — you know that I must not love 
you.” 

In an instant he had wound his arms about her and 
pressed her to his breast and rained hot kisses down 
upon her lips and cheeks and forehead. 

But then voices were heard approaching and with 
one last pressure and one last kiss he tore himself 
away from her and sprang lightly down the path out 
of sight. 

She stood dazed for a moment looking after him with 
beating pulse and glistening eyes until the children’s 
voices recalled her to herself, and then, with still flush- 
ed cheeks and palpitating heart, she slowly ascended 
the bank. 

“Lor! How flushed ye look, Miss,” said Nurse, 
aloud, as Lillian joined them. “ She ain’t used to the 
country, poor thing,” she added mentally to herself 
as she noted how thinly and scantily the little seam- 
stress was clad. 

“ We come out to look for Master Will,” she con- 
tinued after a short pause ; “ they told us that he 
always went homeward by a path through this glen.” 

Nurse paused for a reply, and Lillian answered in as 
calm a tone as she could command, “ I did not know 
that he was here.” 

“ Oh yes,” Nurse answered, glad to get a chance to 
repeat the gossip she had heard from the other servants. 
“ He’s stayin’ wid some friends at a foine large place 
about two miles from here if ye take the path through 
the fields, but a great way further if ye go by the 
road.” 

Nurse went on with her gossip about who were to be 
invited and what preparations were to be made for the 
Christmas festivities but Lillian heard nothing that 
she said. “ I think, Nurse,” she at last remarked, “ I 
think that I will sit here and rest. I feel strangely 
tired.” 

“An’ no wonder,” Nurse replied, “ whin ye wudnt’ 
ate no lunch. But ye’d freeze to death ef ye sat down 
in thim thin close. Ye’re half froze as it is. Don’t sit 
down, Miss Lillian, but hurry crost the field beyant to 


willie Randolph’s wooing. 


31 


the house an’ change yer things an’ get warrum. I’ll 
take the Childers round by the path where the snow 
ain’t so deep.” 

She was tired, wearied, with the tumult of her 
emotion. She was loved ! Randolph had said that 
he loved her ! His words still rang in her ears and set 
her heart beating more rapidly. The dream which 
she had scarcely dared to dream had come to be an 
actuality — yet there was a shadow over her joy — a 
fear of which seemed to paralyze her efforts. She was 
aware of the great social gulf which stretched between 
herself and lover — would he cross it ? 

True, in the ardor of passion he had avowed his love, 
but, when sober reflection came, would he not shrink 
from the self-sacrifice that it demanded ? 

She knew that the Rolands were proud, that they 
were as careless of her existence as of the stones of the 
street — that they would oppose by every expedient in 
their power the union of Randolph and herself. 
Would she bring herself to drag him down to her own 
level — could she consent to deprive him of that social 
intercourse with people of wealth to which he was 
accustomed? Was it not rather her duty to prevent 
him from committing the social suicide which his 
words foreshadowed ? 

Such thoughts as these perplexed and wearied her. 
Her whole life had been one of self-denial and renunci- 
ation, until these sad necessities had grown to be 
habitual, so that now, when this greatest joy of her 
existence came, it seemed to her only another instance 
of self-immolation. Yet the sacrifice was so hard ! 
Her soul trembled and revolted at it. 

As for Willie Randolph, as he walked home he be- 
gan to reflect, and the more he reflected, the more 
awkward the situation seemed. He had scarcely 
thought of Lillian as his wife, until the sudden meet- 
ing had thrown him off his guard, and he had been 
carried, by the passionate impulse of the moment, to 
say words, and utter sentiments, which, in cooler mo- 
ments, he would have suppressed. He realized that 
his relatives would disown him should he commit the 
mesalliance , as they would term it. The more he 
reasoned, the more reluctant he became to incur the 


32 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


penalty. He made many good resolutions that he 
would go away — that he would go away and see Lillian 
no more — and then he thought that he would see her 
just once again, and kindly and gently bid her farewell 
forever. But when he met her again, his resolutions 
vanished, and when she plead to him his own reasons, 
he rejected them with scorn. So, the result was a 
secret marriage, Randolph stipulating, only, that 
their union should be kept secret until he had establish- 
ed himself independently in the world. 

The servants of the Roland household soon remark- 
ed, however, his frequent intercourse with Lillian, and, 
before long, their gossip reached the ears of Percy 
Roland himself. Taxed with it, Randolph did not 
deny it, and, to save himself from graver accusations, 
announced his marriage. 

Then there was a storm in the Roland family. Ran- 
dolph found himself disinherited from family recogni- 
tion by his relatives. He was not a rich man. The 
little capital which he had, was barely enough to set 
him up in the coal business in a town of Delaware 
River. At the end of six years his capital was ex- 
hausted, his business profitless, and he failed. Lillian 
had borne him no children to make the altered cir- 
cumstances more bitter, and so, after a short period 
of despairing indolence, he gathered together the rem- 
nants of his fortune, and came to New York to earn 
his living as a real estate broker. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A CHAPTER OF INTRODUCTION. 

When Arthur Erolt first met Lillian Randolph, she 
lived on the corner of Twenty -sixth street and Sixth 
avenue. There was a grocery store on the ground 
floor, where she was accustomed to purchase supplies, 
and two flights up above this store was the little flat 
in which she and her husband lived. 

This building, being on the corner, had its front en- 
trance not on the avenue, but on the side street, and 


A CHAPTER OF INTRODUCTION. 33 

the windows at the front and side gave good light to 
all the rooms of the apartments. We say, advisedly, 
that the flat was little, and we might have added that 
it was also cheap. It consisted of four rooms, which 
Lillian had arranged respectively as parlor, bed-room, 
dining-room and kitchen, and the rent was seventeen 
dollars a month. She had furnished these rooms very 
prettily, pu rchasing some articles, and making many 
others with her own hands, and, from time to time, her 
friends gave her pictures and knick-knaeks, which 
added much to the appearance of the rooms. 

Randolph was still a real estate broker down town, 
and Erolt, being in that line of business, had a desk in 
the same office, and grew to be pretty well acquainted 
with him in his affairs. But Erolt had known Ran- 
dolph for, at least, two 3^ears before he learned that 
the latter was married. There are some men whose 
personality provokes familiarity, and who are known 
all their lives long, to friends and strangers, by some 
nick-name or affectionate diminutive. Randolph was 
one of these. Although his full name was William 
Templeton Randolph, everybody spoke of him as 
“ Willie.” Willie Randolph was probably about thirty 
or thirty-five years old at this time, and in personal 
appearance was what most people would call fine- 
looking, being fully six feet tall, and stout, though he 
was well proportioned, and weighed two hundred and 
ten pounds. He w r ore a mustache and long, full side- 
whiskers, of which he was somewhat vain, and which, 
like the hair on the top of his head, in the place where 
the hair ought to grow 7 , were of a dark brown color. 
He had a nose somewhat curved like a hawk’s beak, 
but wdth nothing Jewish about it, and his eyes were 
dark brown, large, and set not very prominently, yet 
somewhat fonvard. 

In the town where he had lived v T hen he carried on 
his coal business, he had been a prominent and influ- 
ential man, and something of the style of the village 
magnate still clung to him and was especially notice- 
able in the way in which he greeted strangers. 

In the days of his prosperity he had made friends of 
all his neighbors, and, though he had been too proud 
(or foolish) to ask their aid w hen he left home, after 


34 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


misfortune had befallen him, Erolt always believed 
that some of them never forgot him but helped him 
afterwards. Not that they gave him money, but 
rather, that he got from them orders to buy or sell 
particular pieces of property. 

. One of these friends was Silas Spoontetter, the great 
patent medicine man, who had made his millions out 
of the Azure Blue Corn Salve. He often came into 
Randolph’s^pffice and never left there without telling 
how many thousands he had made during the past 
week, or grumbling over the loss of a few hundred 
dollars in some stock speculation in Wall street. 
Money would never refine his manners, though he 
bought the clothes that encased his short, rotund 
figure from Prouse Cooper, and the hats that covered 
his shiny bald head of Dunlap. He always wore a white 
cambric tie which was continually becoming unfasten- 
ed and which he retied into all sorts of curious knots ; 
and as his fat, pudgy fingers had the unfortunate 
habit of perspiring profusely, this necktie became, as 
the hours of the day rolled on, less and less white. 
Over the broad expense of his ample stomach was 
spread a heavy, gold watch-chain, and on the little 
finger of his right hand he wore a large diamond ring. 
If he only had known how little like a gentleman he 
looked, he would have died in two minutes of sheer 
astonishment. 

Silas Spoontetter was not by any means a clever 
man outside of his business, but in that he was un- 
questionably successful and somehow or other he man- 
aged to keep most of the money that he made; but 
outside of that, Erolt always thought, that he had 
not as much sense as God gives little chickens. How- 
ever, Erolt should not have been severe upon the old 
man’s failings, for he was a good friend to Willie Ran- 
dolph, and indirect^ to Erolt also. 

Another friend of Randolph’s was Jimmy Stock- 
bridge, the well-known breeder of horses, and like 
Spoontetter, a prominent, rich and influential man. 
Erolt never remembered to have seen him at the real 
estate office, though, from Randolph’s description, he 
must have had not only the peculiarities and eccen- 
tricities of most hors*e dealers, but also many eccen- 
tricities of his own. 


A CHAPTER OF INTRODUCTION. 


35 


These men had in one way or another become finan- 
cially interested in street railroads in Chicago, and 
this investment had led them to become the associates 
of a prominent member of the Chicago bar — Douglas 
Egerton by name. Several enterprises in which they 
had joined at his solicitation had proved vastly remu- 
nerative and every dividend which they drew or bonus 
which they divided served to increase their confidence 
in his judgment. 

Sighing for fresh fields to conquer Douglas Egerton 
had turned his attention to New York and had easily 
persuaded Stockb ridge, Spoontetter and others of that 
ilk to join him in the establishment of a bank in the 
lower portion of the metropolis. They had plenty of 
spare capital among themselves and as they thought 
that the proposed investment would be a “ good thing, ” 
they determined “ not to let the public in,” but make 
it “a family affair.’’ No one of them, however, could 
spare from his own affairs, time enough to manage 
the business of this institution and so they began to 
look about them for the proper persons to be president, 
cashier and clerks. 

In some banks the president is the guiding spirit; in 
others it is the cashier. When the latter is the case, 
an elderly man of dignified manners and benevolent 
appearance usually occupies the presidential chair and 
does the polite to customers and visitors, leaving to 
the cashier the transaction of other business — such as 
the exacting of a bonus from customers wishing ac- 
commodation, the. arranging accounts and securities 
for the bank— examiner, and the manipulation of the 
bank stock on the market. 

Such a president was found for The Specie Payment 
Bank, in the person of Pierpoint Hamilton. In years 
gone by he had inherited from his father an interest in 
a shipping business, and on his father’s death had be- 
come a partner in that concern. Somewhat of a lazy 
constitution, and having no natural aptitude for busi- 
ness he had left all the details of the firm’s affairs to 
his other partners, and drawn his share of the profits 
with great regularity, and spent the greater part of 
his time acting as director in various corporations. 
He was a model director, for he hated trouble and 


36 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


was content to let the officers of those corporations 
do as they wished; and he was shrewd enough always 
to swim with the tide and cling to the strongest party. 

He had a large, smooth, fat face, fringed with 
white silken hair, so that his general appearance was 
that of a benevolent and substantial old man. A year 
ago his firm had rusted out with age, as firms will 
when the active minds have left them, and its affairs 
were wound up, and what little property remained af- 
ter paying the lawyers, who left scarcely enough to 
satisfy decency, was distributed among the partners. 

Pierpoint Hamilton still had his directorships left to 
him, but that was an unsettled, insufficiently remuner- 
ative mode of business which seemed to him to be in- 
consistent with his dignity. Therefore as soon as he 
heard rumors about the new bank he began to pull 
wires for the presidency of it; and to his great 
delight was successful in obtaining it. 

It must be confessed that when "his official connec- 
tion with the bank had once been finally determined 
he devoted himself, heart and soul, to getting a first- 
rate cashier. Perhaps there was some wise instinct 
of self-preservation in his effort in this matter, for in 
his inmost heart of hearts he may have realized how 
absolutely incapable he was of managing the affairs 
of such a financial institution; or perhaps he was 
urged on only by a selfish wish to obtain a man who 
would relieve him of all responsibility and necessity 
of looking after the purely business matters. Messrs. 
Spoontetter, Stockb ridge, and the others interested in 
the enterprise gave him great credit, however, as hav- 
ing the interests of the bank thoroughly at heart and 
he made that luckiest of all things, a good impression 
at the start. 

John Foerster, whom, at the opening of this story 
we followed to his home in East New York, hearing of 
the intended institution of the bank had applied for, 
and through the influence of Douglas Egerton, had 
obtained the position of cashier. He had at this time 
worked his way up to be cashier of Levi, Aaron & 
Co., the great sugar refining firm. Foerster was still 
a comparatively young man. In his former position 
he had had sufficient experience to qualify him for the 


A CHAPTER OF INTRODUCTION. 37 

duties of his new office ; moreover, he possessed energy 
enough to save the president all trouble. Though 
Levi, Aaron & Co. were sorry to part with him, yet 
the position now offered was such a step forward in 
the commercial and financial world that he gladly ac- 
cepted it. He had a hankering after Wall-street specu- 
lation, and was glad to get into its atmosphere ; but 
you may be sure that this last reason he kept 
ve^ closely to himself. He was a regular church- 
goer, and was superintendent of a Sunday-school ; and 
pastor and teachers held him up as a model to be imi- 
tated. He had heretofore continued to reside in that 
difficult of access, but cheap suburb of ^Brooklyn, East 
New York ; but upon his election as cashier he moved 
to a fashionable boarding-house on Fifth avenue. He 
never smoked and seldom drank, and was currently 
reported to have no vices. In personal appearance he 
was slight, of medium height for a man, and wore a 
full, black beard, trimmed square at the bottom, as 
was then the fashion. He was particular about his 
clothing, and was always neatly and stylishly 
dressed. 

Ever since that memorable night of the snow-storm, 
Douglas Egerton had kept track of him and helped 
him in many ways — indeed the earliest information 
which Foerster had of the contemplated establishment 
of the bank came from Egerton. 

Similarly, through the influence of Stockbridge and 
Spoontetter, Willie Randolph was offered the position 
of paying-teller, with a salary of three thousand six 
hundred dollars a year. 

Fine offices in the neighborhood of Wall street were 
hired and luxuriously fitted up, and the bank was 
quickly incorporated and made ready for business. 

It was on the day that Willie Randolph was in- 
formed of his appointment as teller that he asked 
Arthur Erolt to dine with him. He wanted to cele- 
brate the event. Erolt was, however, somewhat sur- 
prised when, on their leaving the office, Randolph 
hailed a cab. 

“ Oh, pshaw, old fellow !” Erolt* exclaimed, “ don’t 
be so foolish ! We can walk up to the Astor House, 
and go up in the horse-cars,” 


38 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ No,” Randolph answered, “let’s take a cab. I 
have some purchases to make — the dinner to get — for 
Lillian is not expecting company, and there is prob- 
ably not much in the house. We can’t carry these 
things except in a cab ; and besides X want you to 
choose a couple of bottles of wine for me. I know you 
are a better judge of those things than I am.” 

“ In that case,” Erolt answered, “we had better 
stop at Park & Tilford’s on our way up, for I think 
that is the best place to get such things.” 

“All right,” Randolph remarked, “but first we 
must get the eatables. Drive to Washington Mar- 
ket !” he continued, addressing the driver. 

Erolt got into the carriage wondering who “Lil- 
lian,” of whom Randolph had spoken/ might be ; for 
as yet he knew nothing of his companion's home life, 
and if he had thought of it at all, supposed that he 
boarded somewhere in the city. Perhaps “Lillian” 
was Randolph’s landlady, or her cook, at any rate it 
did not become him to ask questions, so he "held his 
peace. 

They drove to Washington Market, and there they 
bought a hne, plump turkey and some small, fat birds 
for broiling, with such vegetables as properly should 
be served with them ; Randolph appealing to Erolt 
from time to time as to what he should purchase, for, 
here be it remarked, Erolt’ s friend looked upon him 
as something of an epicure. 

“ Row,” said Randolph, as having deposited his 
purchases in the cab, he followed and shut the door, 
“Now to Park & Tilford’s. Have a cigar?” he con- 
tinued, offering his cigar case. “ These are not the 
‘ five centers’ that we usually smoke, but cost twenty 
cents apiece.” 

“You are spending your salary already,” Erolt said 
as he took a cigar and cut off the end , “ I shall have 
to caution you against extravagance.” 

Randolph laughed as he answered, “ Oh, this is an 
extraordinary occasion, and besides, my salary begins 
to-day.” 

At Park & Tilford’s they bought a bottle of Bur- 
gundy and a bottle of champagne, those being the 
two wines which Erolt thought would best suit Ran- 


A CHAPTER OF INTRODUCTION. 


39 


dolph’s taste. This done they stopped at Maillard’s 
and purchased a box of bon-bons “ for Lillian. ” 

“She can’t be the cook,” Erolt thought when Ran- 
dolph mentioned who they were for. 

They walked over to the Hoffman and got a cock- 
tail, then jumped into the cab again and continued 
their ride. 

“ I suppose you are aware,” Randolph said, “that 
lam a married man, and that my wife and I live to- 
gether in the flat to which we are bound ?” 

“No, I didn’t know it,” Erolt said, in some sur- 
prise. “ Have you been married lately ?” 

“ Oh, no ! some years ago.” 

“ I had always supposed you to be a bachelor — 
certainly most of your friends think that'you are.” 

“ Well, there are certain reasons why I don’t object 
to that notion. You see we are too poor for my wife 
to take her proper position in society, and until my 
family receive Lillian, or we get richer than we are, 
we live as it were, incognito— in a flat.” 

“And do you like that way of life?” Erolt asked, 
more for the sake of saying something than for any 
other reason. 

“ Oh, yes,” Randolph answered, “ it is the only way 
to live. To live in lodgings, and go out for your meals 
is, in my opinion, a terribly lonely, tedious method of 
life, and I have a horror of boarding-houses, and hope 
that I shall never live in one again.” 

“ But how do you manage to keep up this establish- 
ment ?” 

“My dear fellow, you forget that I am the paying 
teller of The Specie Payment Bank, and have a salary 
of thirty-six hundred a year.” 

“ Of course, as to the future I can understand, but 
I thought I knew something about your pecuniary 
affairs, and — you astonished me.” 

44 Why how much do you think it costs me ?” 

“ Weil, I don’t suppose you can live that way 
under a hundred and fifty, or at least a hundred a 
month.” 

“ If it costs me more than fifty, I growl,” Randolph 
answered laughing. “ But here we are, and you shall 
soon see how we live.” 


40 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Randolph paid the cahby and carried the purchases 
upstairs, first calling through the tube by the doorway 
that they were coining. 

As they opened the door of the flat they were saluted 
with the furious barking of a small dog, and as they 
entered, a tiny pug rushed up to them, dancing and 
barking with joy, and seemingly trying to wriggle out 
of his skin, so glad he was. 

“ Well, Scrappie, old fell,” said Randolph, “ so you 
are glad to see me, are you ? Where’s Missy ?” 

As Scrappie answered with a whine of pleasure, and 
began a wild race about the apartments, a young 
woman emerged from the adjoining room ; and Ran- 
dolph, having kissed her, turned to his friend and said : 
“ Erolt, let me introduce you to my wife.” 

Erolt shook hands, and said something about the 
pleasure of her acquaintance. 

Turning to Randolph she queried : “ What are all 
these bundles ?” 

“ That’s the dinner,” he answered; ‘‘we are going 
to have a spree to-night.” 

She laughed merrily, and Erolt could not but notice 
that she had a charming, little laugh as well as a 
sweet, low voice. 

“ Don’t you know,” she said, “ that it will . take 
nearly two hours to cook a turkey like that ? It is too 
big for our oven, and we will have to boil it. I think 
we will have to hang the turkey up until to-morrow, 
and let me get you a drvner from the other things you 
have brought.” 

“ That was your fault,” Randolph said to Erolt. 

“ It wasn't at all,” the latter answered with a laugh; 
“ you told me you wanted a turkey, and I picked you 
out a good, fat one.” 

“Well, I’ll run over to the butcher’s and get a 
steak,” Randolph said. 

“ Can’t I go ?” Ei*olt queried. 

“No, you stay here and make yourself agreeable to 
Lillian,” he responded, as he put on his hat and went 
out. 

“ Tell me, Mr. Erolt,” she said, after Randolph had 
gone, “ what is the occasion of this jubilation ?” 

“ That’s a secret,” Erolt replied ; “ I guess Randolph 
will tell you later.” 


A DINNER AT POVERTY FLAT. 


41 


“ Oh, you tell me now. ” 

“Randolph would never forgive me if I did.” 

“ Well,” she said, “I see you can keep a secret, but 
I am devoured with curiosity to know what it is.” 

To Erolt, this living without a servant, economically, 
in a flat, was entirely novel. He had heard, it is true, 
that people lived thus in New York, but he had no idea 
that the class was as large as it really is, and never 
before had he been brought into active participation 
with this method of life. 

He therefore noted curiously everything that he sa w 
— the arrangement of the rooms, the furnishing of 
them, Lillian's appearance, and even the details of her 
personal apparel. 

Like every healthy-minded man he liked a new ex- 
perience. 


CHAPTER Y. 

A DINNER AT POVERTY FLAT. 

Randolph came back with three pounds of steak and 
a can of oysters, and Lillian, taking them into the 
kitchen, put on a wide apron, that covered all the front 
of her dress, and began to take down the pots and 
pans; and Erolt saw that she w r as going to cook the 
dinner herself. 

“ Cannot I help ?” he asked. 

“ What do you know about cooking ?” she replied. 

“ Oh, I have had some experience when camping 
out,” he said. “I rather like to cook if I don’t have 
to wash the pans and plates afterwards.” 

“ Yes,” she assented, “ I think that is the most dis- 
agreeable part of housekeeping. But we laugh at dis- 
comforts, and call our home ‘ Poverty Flat,’ when 
times are hard, and dishes are to be washed.” 

“ I remember once,” Erolt continued, “ I was camp- 
ing with friends near Greenwood Lake, and it was my 
turn to oqqH? * We had some self-raising hour and 


42 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


some yeast-cakes, and I put a quantity of yeast in the 
flour, and I thought it would never be done rising . 0 

“ After such an example of your skill, I think I had 
better do the cooking,” she said, “ but you and Willie 
can set the table.” 

The flat had three rooms (besides the kitchen) and 
these, as has been said, were respectively arranged as 
sitting-room, bed-room and dining-room. The side- 
board in the dining-room was in a corner, and had 
shelves with glass doors in the upper part and closets 
underneath. From these shelves, Randolph and Erolt 
took the plates and glasses and laid them in their 
places, first covering the table with the table-cloth. 
Then they put the knives, forks, spoons and napkins 
by the plates, set out the small coffee-cups and saucers, 
and again volunteered their assistance to Lillian in her 
culinary arrangements. Being repulsed by her, they 
went into the sitting-room to smoke their cigarettes, 
and chat or read until they were summoned to dinner. 
They could hear Lillian moving about in the tiny 
kitchen, and could catch glimpses of her flitting about 
the dining-room as they sat there talking. Perhaps 
half an hour elapsed before she again joined them and 
announced that dinner was ready. 

It was a good dinner, and all enjoyed it heartily. 
Lillian had made soup with the oysters, and enriched 
it by beating an egg in the soup-dish, then pouring 
the hot soup upon the beaten egg and stirring the 
whole violently. So, at least, she told Erolt. The 
steak, which Willie Randolph had brought home, she 
had rolled up and baked with a savory dressing in its 
folds. She had previously prepared a pudding, and 
that, with the dessert they had brought home, made a 
hearty ending to the meal. A dinner is always better 
if simple and without too many courses. 

“ I say, Randolph,” he remarked, as the}' sat down 
at the table, “ had you not better tell Mrs. Randolph 
the great good fortune that has befallen you 

“ Oh, tell me!” she exclaimed, I shall not be able 
to eat a mouthful of dinner until my curiosity is satis- 
fied.” 

Randolph laughed, You have seen children save 

the frosting off their cake that it may be eaten last/ ’ 


A DINNER AT POVERTY FLAT. 43 

he said, “ well, I shall save this tid-bit of news for 
dessert.” 

“You’re real mean,” she said poutingly; “ at any 
rate I shall not drink to its success until I know what 
it is.” 

“ True,” remarked Erolt, “ it is a pity that the wine 
was opened when the secret is not told. How can we 
celebrate an event that is not known ?” 

“ You shan’t have a bit of dinner till you tell me,” 
Lillian said. “ Scrappie shall have it all.” The dog 
heard his name mentioned, and jumped up and barked. 
“ Well,” replied Randolph, laughing, “ I suppose I 
shall have to yield if you are both against me.” Then 
turning to her, he continued: “ I have been appointed 
paying teller of the Specie Payment Bank. So*now 
the news is out.” 

Lillian jumped up, clapping her hands gaily, and ran 
round the table and kissed him. 

“ That is good news,” she cried. “ Ho more waiting 
until people pay their bills nor until schemes go 
through, but a regular salary of how much ?” 

“Lillian, Lillian !’* Randolph said, reproachfully, 
“ Erolt will think you are a mercenary little wretch.” 

“ I don’t care if he does think so,” she answered, 
smiling at Erolt, “ if I did not think of the dollars and 
cents you would have been in the poor-house long be- 
fore this. How much is it ?” 

“ Thirty -six hundred dollars,” Randolph answered . 

“ Thirty-six hundred dollars ! Three hundred a 
month ! Why, that’s a fortune ! Did you get the 
place for Randolph, Mr. Erolt ?” 

“No such luck,” Erolt replied, “ some old friends of 
his remembered him and his financial ability.” 

“ We must drink to his health,” she exclaimed, mer- 
rily filling the glasses with champagne, and hold- 
ing her glass high in the air as she spoke: “ Here’s 
to the long life and prosperity of the bank and its pay- 
ing teller !” 

“ Speech ! speech !” Erolt cried as he set his glass 
down. 

“ I want my dinner. We’ll have the speeches after- 
wards,” Randolph said; and Lillian, thus recalled to her 
household duties, proceeded to serve the oyster soup. 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


44 


From grave to gay, from lively to severe, the con- 
versation ran on during the dinner, and all that was 
known or imagined about the bank was discussed, 
until Lillian’s curiosity was fully 1 " satisfied. 

As the dinner progressed, the good wine had its 
effect, and all became more talkative. Randolph 
began to tell about his earlier years, and to revive 
memories of his former grandeur. Perhaps Lillian 
had heard these tales before; Erolt never had, and 
they were greatly interesting to him, especially as 
they gave him an insight into Randolph’s past history. 

Randolph’s father, he learned, was a prosperous far- 
mer in New Jersey, with mortgages on the neighbor- 
ing farms, and a few shares in the New Jersey Rail- 
road,' - so that he was not entirely “dependent on the 
peach-crop.” Willie being the youngest son, and in 
his youth somewhat delicate in health, had rather an 
easier time of it than his brothers ; but the old man 
must have been something of a martinet from 
Willie’s description of him. 

One incident of Randolph’s youth fixed itself in 
Arthur Erolt’s memory, as Willie narrated it. He 
had been telling of how, when twelve years old, he had 
been sent to boarding school, and recounting his pranks 
there : 

“ I will never forget,” he said, “ the most horrible 
sensation of my life. In Hartwell there was an asylum 
for the insane, and the grounds where the patients 
were allowed to exercise, were, at that time, enclosed 
by a high board fence, with many cracks and knot- 
holes in the boards. We had been off somewhere, a 
half a dozen of us ; it was Saturday afternoon — I be- 
lieve we had been to the river to bathe — and, as we 
were coming home, we heard the shouts of the idiots 
in the enclosure. Boy-like, we wanted to see what was 
going on, and searched about for a convenient peep- 
hole. I found one at length — a knot-hole which 1 
thought would give me command of the grounds in- 
side — I put my eye to it. Suddenly, I seemed fasci- 
nated with horror. Directly in front of me, glaring 
into my eye, scarcely half an inch away, was another 
eye, — the eye of a maniac. I shall never forget my 
terror. Hearing our voices, some maniac inside had 


A DINNER AT POVERTY FLAT. 


45 


sought to spy us out. As his eye gazed into mine, 
there was something awful in it. 1 cannot describe 
what. Never before, nor since, have I seen that fear- 
ful expression in the eye of man or beast. I stood 
there fascinated. Ever since then, I have understood 
the feeling of a mouse that the cat has captured, or 
the bird which the serpent charms. It seemed to me 
that hours were passing, and yet I could not close my 
eye nor recede from the peep-hole, until, at last, some- 
thing, I think one of my comrades striking me as he 
ran past, broke the spell, and I drew back. I was 
really faint, and was obliged to sit down and rest be- 
fore I could follow. Even now, I sometimes dream of 
that maniac’s eye.” 

“ Yes,” Lillian said, as Randolph finished talking, 
“ whenever he has the nightmare, and I wake him up, 
he says he has been dreaming of it.” 

“Does he have them often?” Erolt remarked, as 
lightly as he could ; for, though the incident had taken 
a powerful hold on his imagination, he was not sorry 
to change the conversation into lighter channels. 
“ Does he have them often?” 

“ Only when he eats suppers late at night, and I 
suppose such occasions will be frequent, now that he 
gets thirty-six hundred a year.” 

“Have you ever been abroad?” Erolt asked, ad- 
dressing Lillian later on, as the dessert was placed 
upon the table. 

“No,” she replied, “but I have always wished to 
go — to Paris, especially.” 

“ You ought to go, now that your husband’s salary 
is so larg*e.” 

“I don’t think we’ll go quite so far away, just yet,” 
Randolph interrupted, “ but I do think that we might 
take a cottage in the country for the summer.” 

“ That will be splendid,” Lillian cried, clapping 
her hands, “perfectly splendid! Where shall we 
go?” 

“ I have always had a fancy for Long Island.” 

“ I won’t go to Long Island. I think it’s a dreary, 
desolate place.” . 

“ Well, there are a lot of little towns on tha out- 
skirts of New York. What do you say of them ?” 


46 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“Isay NO to the Sound. It’s the hottest place in 
the world in July and August; hut we might find a 
little cottage in some of the towns along the New 
Haven road.” 

“Well to-morrow or the next day we will begin a 
search, ” Randolph said, “ or better yet I’ll advertise 
in Sunday’s Herald .” 

. “ That is the best way,” Lillian replied, as she rose 
and began clearing the table. At that signal 
Randolph and Erolt rose and went into the sitting- 
room. 

“ I did not know that you were such a book collector, 
Randolph,” Erolt said, as he saw the many shelves 
laden with books. 

“ Ah, these are nothing. Stray volumes that I have 
picked up at the stalls for ten, twenty -five, or fifty 
cents each. When I was rich 1 had a fine library, but 
when I failed it went the way of the rest of my pro- 
perty.” 

“ Are you fond of any particular kinds of books ?” 

“I like to have books that I can read, that’s about 
my only choice. After I have read a book, I like to 
have it about me — it always seems like an old friend. 
I have some fine engravings in this portfolio.” 

After looking over the books and engravings, the 
two men went back into the dining-room and began to 
wipe the dishes. Lillian protested that there was no 
need of their doing so, but it was evidently Randolph’s 
habit to thus aid in the housekeeping, and Erolt join- 
ed readily in it. The whole dinner seemed to him to 
be something of a picnic, and he heartily entered into 
the spirit of the thing. 

“ If I break anything, what will be the penalty ?” he 
asked. 

“ You’ll have to pay for it, of course,” Lillian an- 
swered, laughing. 


CHAPTER VI. 


DOUGLAS EGERTON. 

No one knew whence Douglas Egerton had come. 
He had appeared one day at the office of a real estate 
broker, and expressed his desire to hire a house. The 
broker asked for references — the customer referred him 
to the First National Bank, at the same time pro- 
claiming his willingness to pay his rent in advance. 
This latter circumstance convinced the broker of his 
customer’s respectability, but nevertheless, perhaps 
more out of curiosity than precaution, he made some 
inquiries at the reference given. What he had heard 
was more than sufficient to assure him. Douglas 
Egerton was a customer of theirs, the bank said, and 
had one hundred thousand dollars on deposit with them 
Needless to say, the broker hastened to conclude the 
lease and receive the rent for the first quarter. 

The house, of which Douglas Egerton thus became 
the tenant, stood on that fashionable street in the city 
of Chicago, which rejoices in the high-sounding name 
of United States Avenue. It was an ordinary tliree- 
story-and-basement house, standing in the middle of 
the block. Houses were on either side of it ; that on 
the north being an old-fashioned house, with steep, 
sloping* roof and tall chimneys, and was the property 
of an ancient spinster, by name. Miss Maria Stackel- 
furd. 

Everyone in Chicago — that is, everyone of any social 
prominence — knew Miss Stackelfurd, who was com- 
monly reported to own more land in Chicago than any 
other woman. Rich in lands she may have been, but 
economical in her expenditures she certainly was. She 
lived in that house alone with two maids, seldom go- 
ing out except to church, or for her afternoon drive, 
and never entertaining company. But as her father 
had come to Chicago before there were gray hairs in 
her head, she was now an old resident, and to have 
known her in former years, was the mark of Chicago 
aristocracy. As the Egertons afterwards found out, 


48 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


even living* next door to her cast a reflective glory 
upon them. 

After obtaining the lease of this house, Douglas Eger- 
ton presumably sent for his family, for three days after 
the lease was signed a Mrs. and Miss Egerton were re- 
gistered as guests in the Palace Hotel. There they 
stayed for two weeks, spending their days in shopping 
and furnishing their house ; and when at the end of 
that time, they moved in, Mr. Egerton ’s bank account 
was somewhat smaller than it had been. 

“ No, sir !” Mr. Egerton had said to an obsequious 
bric-a-brac dealer who, having learnt that the goods 
were to be sent to the house next to Miss Stackelfurd’s, 
had protested that there was no need of a cash pay- 
ment. “ No, sir ! I will have no debts if you please. 
Cash , sir ! That’s the way I’ve done business since I 
was twenty-one years old, and on that basis I shall 
continue to do business if I live to be one hundred and 
twenty-one. Cash payments and no debts is the motto 
of Douglas Egerton.” 

The house furnished and the family safely ensconced 
therein, Egerton turned his attention to the selection 
of an office. He soon found one that suited him — 
three rooms that faced on Broad street, not far from the 
courts, yet in the center of the mercantile community. 
These were fitted up in gorgeous style, with carved 
chairs upholstered in stamped morocco, soft carpets on 
the floors and all the evidences of luxury. Then on 
the outer door and on the bulletin in the hall there 
appeared in gilt letters the name, £k Douglas Egerton,” 
followed by the words, “ Attorney and Counsellor at 
Law.” 

Douglas Egerton was of that class known as political 
lawyers. He had wit enough to know that, with his 
slight acquaintance with Chicagoans, but few clients 
would come to him, and that his sole resource would 
be the influence of judges and politicians. He knew 
also that these never sent business to anyone, except 
when the recipient shared his receipts with them, or in 
return for political or pecuniary favors. Perhaps he 
had practised law elsewhere and “ knew the ropes,” 

Certain it is from the day that his office was furnished 
pd hjs sign pilt Up, he began fq take a greqt interest 


DOUGLAS EGERTON. 


49 


in the affairs of his ward. There was not a barkeeper 
in the district whose name he was not soon acquainted 
with, nor whom he did not visit at least once a week. 
On such occasions he treated ” all who were in the 
room, and his entrance was a joyous occasion for 
those on both sides of the bar. Such a man was 
speedily noticed by the “ ward bosses,” and they made 
his acquaintance. He listened to their speeches, sub- 
scribed liberally to their plans, and shortly was sought 
by members of the ring that ruled the city. They, in 
turn basked in the sunshine of his gold, and upon 
his slightest hint eagerly introduced him to the 
judges. 

Then his gorgeously furnished house came into play. 
Dinners were given, sometimes to one judge, when prom- 
inent members of the legal fraternity were present ; 
sometimes to the entire Bench. Even the governor of 
the State had feasted at his hospitable board. Not only 
did Douglas Egerton come to be known as the “ Prince 
of Good-fellows,” but judges and legislators knew 
that in a closet in one corner of his office was a stock 
of good old liquor far better than that sold at the bars, 
and which had the additional merit of costing them 
nothing. If the visitor to his office was of high judicial 
or political position, Egerton was always glad to 
“ break ” a bottle of champagne with him. 

Thus the gold which he had sown began to bear its 
fruit and return its harvest. The judges listened in- 
dulgently to his arguments and sent him part of that 
business which is ever at a judge’s disposal. The pol- 
iticians caused him to be retained in cases against the 
city, and parties who had bills to push through the 
Legislature retained him to argue their merits before 
the committees. 

Douglas. Egerton had three necessary qualifications 
for the role which he had undertaken to play : he had 
a strong head and could imbibe any quantity of liquor 
without becoming intoxicated ; he had a pleasant man- 
ner and never hesitated to part with a dollar if the re-’ 
cipient was influential in any way ; and thirdly, he was 
an expert poker player. 

Our ancestors were terribly clumsy about some 
Mtteilh If they wished to offer “golden reasons ” to a 


50 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


public man, their way was to give him cash, secretly, 
without witness, both giver and receiver . trembling 
lest they might be observed. Among experienced 
men there is no such thing, nowadays., as this bold, 
horrid bribery. If a legislator, or a judge, or a prom- 
inent politician sat down to play a few sociable games 
of poker with Douglas Egerton, and rose the winner of 
five or ten thousand dollars, who dared accused him of 
having been thus bribed ? Why the whole transaction 
was open. There was nothing secret about it. High- 
ly reputable men were present. If Egerton afterward 
rendered his bill for five or ten thousand dollars, his 
clients paid it and asked no questions. They had been 
willing to spend so much money to obtain such a thing. 
They had gotten what they wanted, and their lawyer 
had earned what he charged. They were honest men 
with clear consciences, who paid their debts and would 
never think of bribing anyone. As for pokSr — it was the 
national game. Even Englishmen played poker. 
They had learned it from the parties who came to Lon- 
don and sold them the Emma Mine. 

Whoever Mrs. Egerton may have been before Doug- 
las married her, she was evidently not born to her 
present social position. She was a stout, pale-faced 
woman with a decided liking for bright colors, and 
violent contrast and finery of all kinds. Dress was 
the one subject to which she devoted her entire atten- 
tion ; she was never so happy as when at the dress- 
maker’s consulting as to new costumes. The wives of 
judges, legislators, and other powers, who, in obedience 
to the marital commands, called on the Egertons, 
would have gone away protesting against the “ vul- 
garity of that woman,” had there not come between 
them and the unconscious Mrs. Egerton, the lovely 
vision of Alice. 

How such parents could have such a daughter as 
Alice Egerton, would have been a marvel, worthy of 
the study of psychologists, were it not that the power 
of America to take the coarser fibres of the vulgarians 
of Europe, and, in a generation, refine them into an 
aristocracy, was so well known. 

Lovely as Alice was in face and form, she had that 
perfection of good manners, which, unconsciously, 


Douglas egerton. 


51 


wins those with whom its possessor comes in contact. 
Above all, she had that rarest of all gifts : a sweet, 
low voice. United with her beauty of coloring-, were 
a perfectness of feature and a spirituality of expres- 
sion, which made her lovely at all times and in all 
costumes. Spirituality of expression rarely accom- 
panies dimples and rosy cheeks, yet she possessed all 
three. Although not strictly intellectual, she was 
quick to learn and slow to forget. It was her taste 
that had largely governed the furnishing of the house, 
which everyone admired, and had it not been for her 
restraining influence, there is no knowing what extrav- 
agancies of dress her mother would have been guilty 
of. 

Her father, who never consulted his wife about his 
business matters, sometimes talked with his daughter 
about them, and was surprised to find that behind the 
low, broad forehead, about which the thick, golden- 
brown hair parted in wavy masses, was a keen, calm, 
far-seeing, worldly mind, well able to advise him. 
She made it her task to know the social and business 
influences of each guest that came to her father’s 
house, and to learn from him the influence which each 
could exert upon his schemes ; and could he have 
known the influence, which she more than once had 
exerted in his favor, he would have been astonished 
indeed. 

Naturally, Alice Egerton had hundreds of admirers 
and scores of lovers. But though she smiled on them 
all, there was no partiality in her favors. She accept- 
ed the worship of all equally, and gave equally to all 
her smiles and her thanks. It may be, that hidden 
from the sight of the world, hidden in her own heart, 
was a romance of which she was the heroine, or per- 
-•chance, the love of power was the one sole passion of 
her life. 

In spite of her eighteen years, and her really very 
full knowledge of the ways of the w T orld, she retained 
a youthfulness of appearance and innocence of expres- 
sion, which made her seem young and ignorant of the 
wicked ways of this very wicked world. Her father’s 
elderly visitors took delight in petting her as if she 
was a bright and pleasing child, and it is doubtful if 




f J?HE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Judge Bret, who presided over the Chicago Superior 
Court, ever brought little presents to his own 
daughters as frequently as he did to her. Yet, some- 
times, after he had endeavored to learn from her some- 
thing of her past history (for Judge Bret, in com- 
mon with many of Egerton’s acquaintances, was some- 
what curious as to what her past history might he) he 
was astonished to find how little he really learned 
from her. Except the facts that she had had her 
dolls, and childish joys and sorrows, he could learn no 
more than what Douglas Egerton himself had, volun- 
tarily, told him. After these attempts on his part, as 
the judge thought over the conversation he had had 
with her, he felt a vague intuition that she had skill- 
fully evaded telling him what he desired to know. 
But her guileless countenance, as it arose in his mem- 
ory, was sufficient to exorcise his half-born suspicions. 

If ever a girl had an indulgent parent, that girl was 
Alice Egerton. She had an unlimited supply of pocket 
money — horses, flowers, entertainments, boxes at the 
opera and theater, were hers, if she but expressed the 
sligliest wish for them. The only return ever asked 
was, that she should please some guest of her fath- 
er’s. 

While Douglas Egerton really did love his wife, it 
was hard to see how he could fail to make comparison 
between her and his daughter. And such comparison, 
if made, could not but be unfavorable to the former. 
Yet, if such entered his mind, he gave no outward sign 
of it, and seeing those two together, one could not help 
believe what their friends said of them : “ That if there 
ever was a pair of turtle doves, it was Douglas Eger- 
ton and his wife.” 

At the top of Egerton’s house there was a room 
which had been fitted up as a smoking-room for the 
master. Here he was wont to go as the evening 
waned, and when he was once there, no one dared to 
disturb him. Some few of his acquaintances had been, 
by him, introduced to this room and marvelled at its 
luxuriousness. The ceilings and walls were panelled 
in rich, dark mahogany, and the space not taken up by 
book-shelves was filled with paintings of great value, 
painted by master hands. The hardwood floor was 


DOUGLAS EGERTON. 


53 


neatly covered with rugs, and in one corner was an 
open fire-place, in which a wood fire was built ready 
to he lighted. 

One entire side of the room was occupied by a book- 
case, which reached from floor to ceiling, and held 
upon its shelves histories, poems, novels and scientific 
treatises bound in rich bindings. Luxurious chairs 
were placed about, inviting the occupant of the room 
to loll at ease in their cushion depths. A writing table 
with all its accessories complete, stood in one corner, 
ready at hand, should he choose to write. A hanging 
cabinet on the wall above it disclosed through the bev- 
eled plate-glass of its doors, decanters of wine and 
spirits. Choice varieties of tobacco and segars, in 
china vases or silver boxes, stood about in almost 
reckless profusion, and multitudes of pipes from every 
clime and race lay scattered around . In the daytime 
this room was lighted by two windows, over which 
hung shades of pink silk, but at night heavier curtains 
of the same material, richly embroidered, were drawn 
across them, and the many lamps of china or metal 
were lighted, and their soft light, shining through 
richly tinted porcelain globes, illuminated the apart- 
ment. 

Beneath one of the book-cases was a strong fire and 
burglar proof safe, seeming in appearance to be merely 
an innocent closet, so well was its appearance disguised. 
In this safe Douglas Egerton kept but few papers — 
reserving the safe at the office and the box at the Safe 
deposit vault for such documents as he wished to pre- 
serve. These latter held many a writing from judges 
and lawyers, which the world would have wondered 
at aghast, if it could but once have seen their contents ; 
for Douglas Egerton kept every scrap of paper that, 
even remotely, could enable him to control the men be 
came in contract with. Shrewd as a man may be — 
and the judges and legislators of Chicago were very 
shrewd — there will always be some time, when, thrown 
olf their guard, they commit themselves in writing; 
and there were scraps of paper, in Douglas Egerton’s 
safes, which the writers had forgotten had ever been 
written. Scarcely a week passed that Douglas did not 
add to his collection. 


54 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


One evening- Douglas Egerton retired to this apart- 
ment. He was fatigued — a rare thing for him, for his 
health was perfect and his muscles seemed lik^ steel. 
Yet it had been a busy day and at its *lose a 
large party of Chicago’s most influential citizens had 
dined with him. But finally the last guest had de- 
parted and Douglas Egerton was free. Kissing his 
wife and daughter good-night, he ascended the stairs 
and pushed open the door of this room. The lamps 
were already lighted and he trimmed and turned them 
higher. The windows had been opened for ventilation; 
he closed them, drew the shutters to, and dropped the 
curtains over them. Then he took a pipe, filled and 
lighted it, and threw the match still burning, into the 
fireplace. The dry shavings caught the blaze and 
lit the sticks of dry wood, and the flames danced mer- 
rily upwards towards the chimney. 

Then as if it had suddenly occurred to him, he turned 
the key in the door locking it ; and as if that was not 
sufficient protection, he touched a spring, pushed back 
a panel in the framework and disclosed an iron bar 
which he noiselessly slid across the door, and over all 
he dropped the silken portiere. That done, he turned 
to the bookcase, removed one of the books and put- 
ting one hand into its place, with the other pulled 
the bookcase towards him. Slowly and without a 
sound, part of the bookcase yielded to his pull and 
swung towards him. Behind was the paneled wall — 
what would he do next ? 

Leaving the bookcase, he placed his hands upon one 
of the upright panels, and it slowly slid out of sight, 
showing a narrow recess running from floor to ceiling. 
From this he took a light but strong ladder, and car- 
rying it into the room, he stood it upright on the floor, 
with one end resting against a ipahogany beam in the 
ceiling. Then he slid back the panel into its place, and 
swung back the bookcase so that it hid the wall. 
It was a gleverly planned hiding-place, which no one 
would suspect, or think of searching for. Then as- 
cending the ladder, he pushed aside one of the squares 
in the ceiling, and passing through the hole, drew up 
the ladder after him and pushed the board back into its 
place. 


THE SPECIE PAYMENT BANK. 


55 


It was a small, low, dark space in which he found 
himself, but though he could neither stand erect nor 
see the objects about him he did not hesitate where to 
plant his feet as he carried the ladder to one side and 
carefully lowered it through an opening again into its 
secret niche. Then he pressed against the brick » wall 
of the adjoining house and passed out of sight. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SPECIE PAYMENT BANK. 

The Specie Payment Bank had secured offices on the 
first floor of No. 20 Narrow Street, in close proximity 
to the Stock Exchange and the Sub-Treasury. These 
offices, originally dark and dreary, underwent a change 
almost miraculous, as soon as the lease was. signed. 
A small army of plasterers, painters and carpenters 
were set to work, in relays, working day and night, 
until the transformation seemed to be almost caused 
by Aladdin’s wonderful lamp. The ceilings and the 
Avails were elegantly frescoed. Counters and desks of 
polished wood with gilded railings and gratings were 
carried from up-town workshops and $et up in the 
office, blocks of heavy stone were lowered one by one 
until a strong stone casing was built about the great 
safes of Herring’s manufacture. And in the rear was 
the directors’ room where the directors were to meet, 
and the lunch-room where they and the clerks were to 
lunch on week days. 

Pierpoint Hamilton left the furnishing of the direc- 
tor’s room to the upholsterers, scarcely troubling him- 
self to give more than general directions about its dec- 
oration, but every detail of the lunch-room passed 
under his eagle eye, and was executed almost invari- 
ably under his personal supervision. A professional 
director for the greater part of his life, he was keenly 
alive to the desirability of a good lunch served in a 
well appointed room. He knew well that the double 


56 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


eagle which directors get for attending meetings of 
“The Board” was a great inducement to all to be 
present, but when a good lunch was added the induce- 
ment became irresistible. All the applicants for the 
position of caterer were personally examined by him- 
self, and several were rejected before he found one up 
to his standard. 

Finally when the bank was duly incorporated, and 
all of its five hundred thousand dollars of capital paid 
in, and the offices ready for occupation, the doors were 
thrown open, and the announcement was made that 
the Specie Payment Bank was ready to commence 
business. 

New banks seldom lack customers; certainly the 
Specie Payment Bank did not. Brokers knew well 
that in its vaults were five hundred thousand dollars 
waiting to be loaned out, and each one pressed into the 
bank with his deposit and his application for loans, 
anxious to get a slice of it. 

In the directors’ room, the President, and Messrs. 
Spoontetter, Stockb ridge & Co., held a levee, and 
smilingly greeted the throng that pressed in to con- 
gratulate them. 

“Ha!” said the stout Spoontetter, unctuously rub- 
bing his hands together, “this looks like business! 
It almost reminds me of the rush for Azure Blue 
Corn Salve.” 

“ The project is highly approved, sir, highly com- 
mended even by our most conservative financiers,” re- 
sponded Pierpoint Hamilton to whom the remark had 
been addressed. 

“ Business is booming at a two-ten gait,” suggested 
Mr. Stockbridge, coming up at that moment. 

“ Luncheon is served, sir,” said the liveried servant 
softly, at the President’s elbow. Low as he spoke, the 
grateful sound was heard by many ears, and with one 
impulse all the directors present moved toward the 
lunch-room. 

Pierpoint Hamilton’s tiny heart swelled almost to 
the average dimensions of other hearts, as he sat at 
the end of the table, and surveyed his board of direc- 
tors. His eyes feasted as they rested on the bounti- 
ful!, v y -spread taWe. Hub a deeper inward natfefactiQp 


THE SPECIE PAYMENT BANK. 


57 


was his, as he heard through the swinging door the 
softened murmur from without, mingled with the 
clinking of coins and the rustling of bank-notes and 
certified checks. 

“ Gentlemen, ” cried one director, rising and knock- 
ing on the table for silence, “ gentlemen, I have a 
health to propose to you — the health of our worthy 
President, Pierpoint Hamilton. ” 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! Pierpoint Hamilton ! Speech !” 
cried the others, as the toast was drunk. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the President, as swelling with 
pride, he rose to respond, “ gentlemen, the moments 
are golden. I will make no speech, but give you an- 
other toast to drink: — ‘ The bank — Long life and pros- 
perity to it.’ ” 

“ Long life and prosperity !” echoed the directors as 
they set down their emptied glasses. 

But speaking upon an empty stomach was no part 
of Pierpoint Hamilton’s programme, so he proceeded 
to attack the good things set before him, and his exam- 
ple was speedily followed by the others! 

When the directors had lunched, and many with - 
flushed faces and an occasional unsteady step had dis- 
appeared into the street, the table was reset ; and the 
clerks, as they could find time, rushed into the lunch- 
room to satisfy their hunger, and in a few moments 
that they could spare, celebrate the auspiciousbccasion. 

If the clerks did not have the same space of time to 
celebrate their happiness that the directors did, their 
joy was no less. Most of them felt to the full extent 
the pleasurable fact, that they now held good sal- 
aried positions, which they had every reason to antici- 
pate would be permanent, unless promotion intervened, 
and the thought of that intervention did not mar their 
enjoyment. The little groups about the table nodded 
to each other and drank to the health of the President, 
mentioning their toast under their breath, so that the 
caterer might not hear the words, “ The health of old 
‘ Peacock Pierpoint.’ ” 

Yes, sad to relate, although the bank had not yet 
been in operation one full day, some irreverent fellow 
had christened the dignified President, “ Peacock Pier- 
point,” and the clerks had caught up the nickname. 


58 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ It was a gala-day to all concerned/’ Arthur Erolt 
said that evening* as he told the events of the day to 
his family at home. “ It was a gala-day, though a 
busy one.” 

Even the janitor’s family celebrated the occasion in 
their flat, upstairs. When all the occupants of the 
building had departed for the night, the caterer know- 
ing that his bill for the day’s lunch would not be ques- 
tioned, had taken occasion to “ get solid ” with the 
janitor’s family by leaving a stock of wines and viands 
with them. 

How few people passing along the streets down 
town during the day stop to think of the vast number 
of inhabitants that those tall office buildings hold ! 
As we sit at home in our comfortable rooms and hear 
the chimes from some neighboring steeple, we think of 
those buildings down town as dark and lonesome, and 
of the streets as deserted of all except a belated clerk 
or a patroling watchman. But if we draw such pictures 
they are not true to fact. Scarcely a building is there 
which does not hold a family within its walls. The 
janitors live in the upper stories and they are seldom 
bachelors. Married men are deemed safer custodians 
of the property which the safes and desks in those 
offices hold ; and there are but few buildings which 
have not their janitors. 

Walk down Wall Street during a winter’s evening 
between six and eleven o’clock. Tenants are hurrying 
out of the wide doors, their work done for the day ; 
but the duties of the janitors are just beginning. Each 
of those offices must be swept and dusted. The waste 
paper baskets must be emptied carefully, after close 
scrutiny, for valuable papers, checks arid sometimes 
even money, find their way into those receptacles. If 
there be open fires in the offices the ashes must be 
raked out, their embers carefully extinguished and new 
fires built in the grate ready to be lighted the next 
morning. Windows must be cleaned, halls scrubbed 
and the front steps and sidewalks washed down. 

The clergy of old Trinity know these dwellers in the 
office buildings, perhaps better than anyone else, for 
the Sunday afternoon congregations that crowd that 
Gothic temple are composed almost entirely of janitors 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 59 

and their families, and the Sunday school is filled with 
janitors* children. 

Many of these janitors are quite well-to-do. Their 
responsibilities are great and their pay and gratuities 
are often considerable, while their expenses, except for 
food, are reduced to a minimum. There are very few 
Irish or English among them, but they are mostly 
Germans, Danes or Swedes. Their’s is a curious life 
and one which will well repay a closer study. 

Eric Nissen was the name of the janitor of the build- 
ing in which the office of the Specie Pa3^ment Bank was 
located, and his family had their little jollification over 
the opening of that institution. They were more fash- 
ionable, however, in their hours, for it was not until 
nearly ten o’clock that their invited guests began to 
arrive. Paul Saxe, the night watchman at the bank, 
opened the doors for them when they rang, and when 
all the expected guests had come, he, too, went up- 
stairs, and joined in the festivities. 

It may be questioned if the proceedings about the 
lunch- table at the bank, were any more jolly than 
those which lasted until midnight in the cosy apart- 
ments of the janitor upstairs, where the good things 
were disposed of, songs sung, while the younger por- 
tion danced until the morning hours. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 

Arthur Erolt was twenty-six years old at the time 
this story opens. The events of those twenty-six years 
may be briefly narrated, for as some writer has well 
said : “ Happy years leave slender records ; it is sin 

and misery which make history.” 

Few sin's and miseries had been Erolt’s portion in life 
during these years — only the customary faults and trou- 
bles of childhood and youth, which, great as they may 
appear at the time, dwindle into nothingness as man- 


60 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


hood’s experience feeds the soul on the hitter fruit of 
age and knowledge. The world had dealt gently 
with him during those years. It had seemed a pleasant 
place ; life appeared well worth the living. There had 
been, it is true, some rugged places in the way, where 
he had stumbled, and some few pitfalls, too, whose 
treacherous brinks his feet had approached danger- 
ously near ; but watchful and loving hands had ever 
been extended to lift him out of the dangers which he 
encountered, and to ward off the perils that threatened. 

To begin with Erolt’s birth is only right. To ante- 
date that interesting event would remind one of the 
famous French philosopher, who, hurrying along the 
street, wrapped in deep thought, and oblivious of all 
about him, ran violently against a portly, uniformed 
personage coming the other way. The latter, as soon 
as he could recover from the shock, drew his form 
haughtily upright, and indignantly exclaimed : 

“ Sir, give an account of yourself ! Whence do you 
come ? Whither do you go ? Who are you ?” 

“ Ah,” said the philosopher, with a deprecatory ges- 
ture, “ whence do I come ? Whither do I go ? What 
am I ? Those are problems I have been endeavoring to 
solve these forty, years 

But, although our story compels a casual reference 
to such previous circumstances, as Arthur Erolt’s an- 
cestors, their social status and pecuniary estate, we 
need not probe the past much further than to his child- 
hood’s days. 

His father was a clergyman, who, when Arthur was 
two years old, was called to be the rector of the parish 
of St. Sulpice in the city of New York. 

The parish of St. Sulpice was an ancient corporation. 
The seeds from which it sprung were sown in Revolu- 
tionary days when the royal— or rebellious, as they 
were then termed — proclivities of old Trinity, 
gave offense to the brutal British red -coats and 
their Tory sympathizers. Gifts of real estate from 
pious men and women of past generations had, as the 
city grew, proved more valuable than their donors had 
ever imagined, and at the period of Arthur Erolt’s 
birth, St. Sulpice was reputed to be one of the wealth- 
iest corporations in the city. 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 


61 


The church building; was at this time far down town. 
The descendants of its original congregation seldom 
came to it, but they still retained the ownership of their 
pews, more as a voucher that they had ancestors of 
Knickerbocker origin than as stated places of divine 
worship — for though rings, brooches, and other antique 
specimens of personal property can be, and often are, 
purchased by parvenus, and fitted with such family leg- 
ends as the imagination or memory of the owners dic- 
tate, the ownership of a pew in church is a matter of legal 
record, and its purchase by some dead ancestor is indis- 
putable evidence of past gentility and grandeur. For 
these reasons the pews of St. Sulpice seldom changed 
owners. They were leased but not sold; though in 
many instances, they were the only remnants of an- 
cestral fortunes. The impoverished gentleman or 
gentlewoman clung to them as the soldier may cling 
to his cross or medal. Death, Starvation, Dishonor, 
are alone the three golden balls, to which it may be 
pawned. 

St. Sulpice was a sleepy old church. Its rector and 
assistants were old men, whose years had deadened 
such natural proclivities for activity as they may have 
once possessed, and who had fallen into narrow ruts of 
routine and were content to jog along quietly in the 
habitual monotone of routine until their even, unevent- 
ful lives should gradually wear away. Compared with 
the vigor which it showed in later years, the corpora- 
tion might almost be called lifeless, so slumberous 
and benumbed it was. 

The affairs of St. Sulpice jogged sedately and decor- 
ously along until the rector died — an aged man of more 
than fourscore years — and the vestry began to look 
about for his successor. They were, however, not in 
a hurry. Dutch phlegm was a characteristic of their 
ancestors, and it was an aristocratic thing to cultivate, 
as filial descendants should, the virtues of their pro- 
genitors. There was no need of hurry; the matter was 
an important one and needed deliberation, and while 
they were leisurely discussing the merits of the various 
candidates, the church affairs moved bn in the accus- 
tomed routine, under the guidance of the two assist- 
ants, For St, Sulpice, having a large income, and no 


62 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


chapels or schools to care for, spent its revenues gen- 
erously in providing a sufficiency of spiritual shepherds 
over itself. 

It was this dilatoriness on the part of the vestry 
which gave rise to that remark of Robert Schefferlandt 
which was so widely quoted in church circles. 

He met Dick Vanderstael, one of the wardens, one 
day and stopped him. 

“. Holloa, Dick,” he cried, “ I hear you have a lot of 
trouble in getting a rector. Is that so ?” 

“ It is, indeed/’ Vanderstael had answered, proceed- 
ing to detail the qualities which the vestry desired — 
how the priest they were looking for must be eloquent, 
meek-minded, spiritually inclined, earnest, a good vis- 
itor, well learned, a wise business man (for he had to 
preside over St. Sulpice’s money affairs), a gentleman 
by birth, and other requisites too numerous to mention 
here. 

Bob Schefferlandt heard him patiently to the end 
and then uttered his famous remark: 

“ I know where you will find just such a man.” 

“ Where ?” eagerly exclaimed Vanderstael. 

“ In heaven,” Schefferlandt replied, “ and that’s the 
only place you’ll find the kind of a man you’re looking 
for.” 

Still the vestry continued to deliberate until the fame 
of Morgan Erolt’s energy and oratory reached their 
ears, and a committee was dispatched to investigate. 
They visited the sister church in a neighboring city 
and heard him preach, saw with their own eyes the 
work which he was doing, and returned homeward and 
reported so favorably that Morgan Erolt was called to 
St. Sulpice and accepted the call. 

His coming instilled new life into the inert corpora- 
tion. Gradually schools arose, guilds for the down- 
town parishioners were formed, and at length even a 
sisterhood of pious women were installed in the wide 
great house that had once been the rectory. 

Coming as Morgan Erolt did, from New England, he 
did not fit at first into the ruts of New York theology. 
With relentless hand he brushed away many a cobweb 
which had dimmed the beauty of the old edifice. The 
chancel was newly decorated, the organ was repaired 
and a surpliced choir introduced. 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 


63 


Many good orthodox, conservative churchmen held 
up their hands at his introduction of novelties which 
disturbed their peace ; hut the general multitude 
flocked in crowds to hear the beautiful music and lis- 
ten to the eloquence of the preacher. The parish 
awoke to life and the fame of Morgan Erolt as pastor 
and preacher was renowned through the land. 

Arthur Erolt was but two years old when his pa- 
rents removed to the city — too young to remember his 
old home. As he grew up he passed through the usual 
vicissitudes of childhood, suffered from the usual child- 
ish diseases, got into the usual childish scrapes, and 
had the same childish joys and sorrows that other chil- 
dren have. But in one respect his position was almost 
unique. The wealthiest men in the metropolis attend- 
ed St. Sulpice’s and entertained their pastor and his 
family. They would scarcely allow a layman as poor 
as Erolt was to darken their doors, but his poverty 
seemed only natural since he was a clergyman — and a 
rich clergyman is an anomaly. 

Arthur, though better born and descended than most 
of those whom he associated with, could not but feel the 
great gulf that their riches placed between them. This 
gulf seemed only like a narrow crack at first, for lie had 
at home more devoted care and attention than many a 
rich man’s son; but as he grew older the gulf 
widened. 

His allowance of pocket money, liberal as it was for 
a minister’s son, was so much smaller than that of his 
associates that it made a difference between them. In 
the country this might not have been so much noticed, 
but in the city, and especially in the city of New York, 
where money is the paramount end, aim and topic of 
life, it was speedily apparent. He saw other boys 
of his age, who were neither as bright nor as clever, 
nor as well-mannered as he, riding their saddle-horses 
and driving their carriages through the streets. 

Moreover, he *vas obliged to be careful with his 
clothes, and often wear them until they approached 
shabbiness, while the boys he knew had but to step 
into a tailor shop whenever the whim struck them. 
Their talk, too, was almost wholly of wealth and dress, 
and their contempt for poor people brought the differ- 
ence between him and them constantly before his 
eyes. _ 


G4 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Children about twelve and fourteen years of age 
think far more earnestly and deeply on things which 
concern themselves than grown folks have any idea of. 

In those days Arthur often wished his father had 
been a banker, or stock-broker, or a real estate specu- 
lator, like the fathers of his friends. Not until long 
afterward, when his own experience had shown how 
utterly vile were the lives of many of these rich men 
in their inhumanity to man, did he rejoice that his be- 
loved father had not been one of them. 

It has been well said that when a man becomes great, 
he owes his greatness to his mother’s teachings ; and 
this is true, whether his greatness is of the kind which 
men bow down and worship, or of that more modest 
kind of greatness, which consists in secretly doing 
good or suffering the “ slings and arrows of outrageous 
fortune,” in silence, with courage and fortitude. 

Morgan Erolt had married Mary Leslie, the daugh- 
ter of one squire and the sister of another, at the small 
New England village where his first parish had been lo- 
cated. She traced her descent back to two of the signers 
of the Declaration of Independence, and from more than 
one of the earlier military heroes of the nation. Few 
Americans could boast of so illustrious an American 
ancestry as Arthur Erolt, the clergyman’s son. 

Mary Leslie, though born, and living the most of 
her life, in the peaceful calmness of the country village, 
had, nevertheless, paid frequent visits to Boston, often 
spending months of the year with some of its most 
aristocratic inhabitants. Had she cared for society, 
she would probably not have accepted the love of the 
poor young minister. But she had been instructed to 
care for other things than worldly notoriety or pecun- 
iary success, and when she found that Morgan Erolt 
had her heart, she gave him herself also, in marriage. 

The frivolity of New York society was distasteful to 
her, and she seldom accompanied her husband to the 
dinners to which their parishioners invited them. Mor- 
gan Erolt, active and energetic, loved to mix with men 
and never shirked the social or other duties that his call- 
ing laid upon him. Yet two days in every week, Sun- 
days and Fridays, he never dined away from home, and 
on other days he was only absent when duty called him. 


65 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 

Arthur Erolt’s home-life was as happy as a hoy’s 
could be — the crosses which he had to bear were laid 
upomhim by the world outside. 

So the years rolled b}^, until Arthur was old enough 
to go to college; and as his father believed that absence 
from home and the self-dependence Avhich college life 
taught, were the most valuable things that a boy could 
learn, Columbia College was passed by. 

The choice wavered long between Harvard and 
Princeton, but the New England tradition of the fam- 
ily determined the event in favor of the former. So to 
Cambridge Arthur Erolt went, and passed his time 
part in study and partin play, as many others before 
and since have done. He distinguished himself in no 
way, neither in athletics nor in letters, rising neither 
to the head of his fellows nor falling to the foot, but 
rather passed unnoticed among the great mass of 
them. The professors, if they had been asked about 
him would probably have gauged him correctly and 
said he was clever, but indolent. 

Perhaps the greatest value of a college course is the 
friends which one makes in those four years. Arthur 
Erolt, with his pleasant manners and kindly disposi- 
tion, could scarcely fail to make many friendships ; but 
one man, by name of Somes (shortened familiarly to 
Somie) Temple became in particular his friend. 

Somes Temple was the son of a wealthy New Yorker, 
and though he would some day inherit vast riches, he 
was now at college on a comparatively slender allow- 
ance. But Erolt loved him, not because of his pros- 
pects of future wealth, but because Somes was en- 
dowed with a wonderfully fine character, a certain 
strength and purity of soul, which, while he himself 
seldom erred, made him charitable to all those weaker 
than himself. 

It is an ordinary saying that men who are endowed 
with extraordinary muscular strength, are not un fre- 
quently, also, given amiable tempers. So likewise it 
might be said of Somes Temple, that as his soul was 
stronger and nobler than the souls of other men, his 
charity (with all that this word implies) was greater 
than theirs. Such men as this man are very rare, for 
the Creator seldom uses more than once or twice in a 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


66 


century, the pattern on which their spiritual nature is 
moulded. 

It is true that in those days of college life Somes’ 
nature was not fully developed, hut Erolt instinctively 
recognized and reverenced the divinity of it, and sought 
to become his friend ; and Somes, recognizing the 
good points of Erolt’s character, liked him and gave 
him his friendship. Of course neither of the two men 
stopped to reason over the why and wherefore of their 
mutual liking, but rather yielded to the intuitive 
promptings of their hearts, and became friends. 

At the end of the college course, Arthur Erolt came 
home — home with his diploma, to celebrate his coming 
of age, uncertain in his future plans, and unaware of 
any special aptitude for any special calling. He had, 
.however, an idea that he would like to become an art- 
ist, and accordingly entered himself as a student in 
Brigloxe’s studio. 

It was at this period of his life that he formed an 
attachment that his rich and worldly-minded friends 
shook their heads over, and declared would be his ruin. 
In other words, he became engaged to a poor girl. 
She was a daughter of respectable and moderately 
well-to-do parents, her father being a lawyer who 
practised in New Y ork and lived in Brooklyn. Arthur 
had known her as a boy, and the two had always, even 
as children, called themselves lovers. Before he had 
gone to college, he had besought her to pledge herself 
to him, but her parents had interposed their objections, 
insisting that both were too young to talk of marriage. 
But Arthur, when he came home a college graduate, 
and with twenty-one years back of him, had again 
offered himself, and been accepted. 

His parents had no legitimate cause for objection. 
Sarah Sprague was not only a lady by birth and breed- 
ing, and in her somewhat narrow social circle she was 
a noted beauty. Her friends, indeed, thought she had 
“thrown herself away ” when she accepted a clergy- 
man’s son ; and many a richer and disappointed suitor 
concurred in this opinion. She, however, was untroub- 
led by doubts or regrets of this sort. She accepted 
Arthur Erolt because she thought she loved him — and 
indeed Erolt’s was a character which one could not 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 


67 


help loving the more intimately one knew it. It is 
barely possible that her affection may have been 
slightly encouraged by her ambition. She knew that 
Erolt’s social acquaintance was far larger than her 
own, and included the richest people of the nation and 
possibly she was not wholly uninfluenced by a desire 
to be numbered among this social set. It is probable, 
also, that she supposed that Erolt was a richer man 
than he actually was : still people — and young people 
especially — when they are in love, do not stop to argue 
with their sensations or analyze their motives ; and 
though it is sometimes the province of authors to do 
this for them, he is a bold man who attempts to read 
accurately the impulse of a woman’s heart. 

In personal appearance Sarah Sprague was of 
medium height — say five feet two inches, if you wish 
for precision — with a plump, but by no means fat, 
oval face. She was a blonde, with golden hair which, 
however, seemed in certain lights to deepen into a 
burnished copper shade. Her eyes were blue, fringed 
with long lashes, and her mouth — well, Arthur used to 
write verses about her mouth and compare it to 
Cupid’s bow and curved rose petals ; and his sketch- 
book were filled with representations of it. But the 
mere recital of the coloring or features of a face can 
give but a poor idea of its appearance. We judge and 
we remember countenances more by the expression 
which they bear, the character which speaks from 
them, than from the mere physical contour of the 
flesh or the color of the hair or eyes. We judge by 
fleeting expressions of joy or sorrow, of love or hate, 
of pity or scorn, and these no words can portray, no 
adjectives describe. 

It was at this stage of his life-journey that Arthur’s 
first great sorrow fell upon him. His father died 
after a brief illness. Overwork had undermined his 
once vigorous constitution, and one night being called 
from bed to baptized a dying child, the change from 
the warmth of home to the chill night air, brought on 
a cold which grew until pneumonia set in, and he sank 
into the sleep which knows no earthly awaking. 

At first Arthur did not realize the full extent of his 
loss. He missed his father, of course, and shed many 


68 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


natural tears at his death, hut he had been taug*ht that 
death is but the first step in a passage to a higher, better 
life, and he knew that his father had died in the firm 
faith of a glorious resurrection. They had been 
friends — his father and himself — comrades with such 
community of interests as the difference in their years 
would permit. The parental relationship had not been , 
as it often is, the rule of the stronger man governing 
more by fear than love. Arthur had gone to his 
father with his doubts and perplexities, and by so do- 
ing had afforded the father opportunities to protect 
and guide his son. The younger man missed his 
pleasant intercourse, and as the years passed he missed 
also the support of the wise advice and strong mind of 
his father — perhaps all the more because his nature 
combined an artistic dreaminess and a sort of almost 
feminine purity and weakness that illy fitted him to 
battle with the world. 

There are two kinds of grief appertaining to the dual 
natures of humanity — the animal and the spiritual. 
The first we share with the brute citation — we suffer 
bodily pain as the} 1 ' do — we miss the familiar com- 
panionship of some accustomed comrade and mourn 
the absence. But the soul is the denizen only of man’s 
body, and brute beast cannot know the deeper anguish 
which comes upon the spirit when death summons 
away one who is loved and memory revives the realiza- 
tion of our loss. Time, it is true, heals all wounds, and 
who knows but that Eternity may bring forgetfulness 
of all earthly sorrows ! 

After the first passionate outburst of grief had ex- 
hausted itself, Arthur Erolt gave himself wholly to 
settling his father’s worldly affairs, and showed busi- 
ness abilities that astonished all those with whom he 
was brought in contact. Morgan Erolt died a poorer 
man than anyone supposed, and when his estate was 
settled Arthur found that all the income that his 
mother and himself could count upon was two thousand 
dollars a year. He saw that this income would not 
allow him to pursue his art studies, especially as now 
the rectory must be given up and house rent paid ; so 
he laid his palette and brushes aside, and with the 
advice of his friends became a real estate broker. Many 


A BIT OF CHURCH HISTORY. 


69 


of his acquaintances promised to give him business, some 
did so ; and he started out under the most flourishing 
auspices. His mother hired a small house in Brooklyn, 
and the furniture from the rectory more than furnished 

it. 

But scarcely a year passed before he began to ex- 
perience the effects of his father’s death. The first 
thing he noticed was a decrease in his own importance, 
for he was a proud and “ touchy” young man and 
keenly alive to 'slights. By that process that most 
men go through he was gradually finding his level in 
the world, now that he had only himself to rely upon. 
Many of his fashionable acquaintances forgot him ; 
but perhaps they were not to blame, for he spent his 
evenings quietly at home with his mother or his sweet- 
heart, and being in deep mourning, of course could not 
go out into the gay world of society. 

The new rector, too, had ideas of his own, and Arthur 
Erolt felt shocked at the changes which were made in 
St. Sulpice’s. The rector’s pew he and his mother had 
given up when the new rector came, and it took 
Arthur many months before he could grow accustomed 
to his new seat. It seemed strange to him to see an- 
other family sitting where he had sat for so many years. 
He reasoned more than once on the foolishness of feeling 
such things, but it is often trifles which affect us most. 

The new rector, was a man of kind heart, but he had 
never undergone much experience. He saw Arthur’s 
disapproval, for Arthur was too young to be a good 
dissembler, ana was offended by it. Arthur himself 
sorrowed that he could not fit himself at once into the 
grooves of his new life ; but he need not have done so, 
for if he had, it would have proved that his nature was 
weak and pliant instead of loving, and, like many lov- 
ing natures, unyielding. He simply suffered one of 
those disadvantages which inexperienced characters 
suffer. His mother knew nothing of these troubles, 
but Arthur poured them all into the ear of Sarah 
Sprague, and she alternately laughed at and sympa- 
thized with him. Yet Arthur’s life could not proper- 
ly be called unhappy. He spent the days in New 
York, working at his business, and his evenings at 
home with his mother or his sweetheart, 


70 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


It was in the course of his business that he had come 
to know Willie Randolph, and, as has been said, to 
have a desk in the same office with him. 

It was perhaps a week after the dinner mentioned in 
the first chapter that Arthur came home a little later 
than usual. Mrs. Erolt, watching’ for him from the 
window, saw him coming' down the street with Sarah 
Sprague clinging to his arm, both laughing and chat- 
ting as if there was never a care in the world. 
She smiled fondly as she saw them, and then a re- 
membrance of her own past happiness arose, and 
she breathed a sigh and a prayer that it would be long 
ere these two were parted. She met them at the open 
door as they came up the steps, and when they had 
kissed her, she said : 

“ What has happened that you two are so happy 
and gay to-day ?” 

“ Great news ! Great news !” cried Sarah ; “ Arthur 
must tell it to you.” 

“It must be great to make you so very joyful.” 

“Have you no curiosity to hear what it is ?” 

“ Of course I have. What is it ?” 

“ Well you have heard me talk of Mr, Randolph — ” 
Arthur commenced, but Sarah put her hand over his 
mouth and interrupted, crying out : 

“ That's no way to tell the news ! Oh, Mrs. Erolt, 
I will tell you. Arthur has been offered a position in a 
bank and will soon be president.” 

“Hold on,” Arthur said, releasing her hand from 
his mouth, yet holding it tight in both of his hands, 
“ hold on; you are getting ahead too fast. It is only 
a subordinate clerkship, and I may never be presi- 
dent.” 

“Oh, yes you will, I know you will!” Sarah an- 
swered; “ have not we arranged all the details, how 
you are to make yourself so important and necessary 
that promotion is sure to come, and you are to 
be teller, cashier and president?” 

“ Really, I hardly know what the news is between 
both of you,” Mrs. Erolt exclaimed ; “ Arthur, tell 
me about it.” 

“ Sarah won’t let me.” 

“Yes, I will, too.” 


A BIT OP CHURCH HISTORY. 


71 


“ Why don’t you, then ?” 

“ Oh, go on and don’t be provoking- !” 

“Well,” Arthur said, “Mr. Randolph has obtained 
for me a position in a bank about to be started ; and 
when I stopped on my way home to tell Sarah, she in- 
sisted on coming home with me, and on the way has 
promoted me already to the presidency.” 

“ But I don’t understand yet,” Mrs. Erolt queried. 
“ I thought Mr. Randolph was poor and struggling. 
What influence can he have with a bank?” 

“You see,” Arthur rejoined, “he knows the men 
who are going to start the bank — they are old friends 
of his — and he is going to be paying-teller, and he 
mentioned my name to them and they have offered 
me a place as receiving- teller with a salary of twenty- 
four hundred a year.” 

“ That is good news, isn’t it, mother dear ?” cried 
Sarah, hugging her prospective mother-in-law. “1 
declare, I haven’t been so glad for a long while.” 

“ It is indeed good news,” answered Mrs. Erolt, 
“ but are you so glad that you cannot eat any din- 
ner ?” 

“If Sarah can’t, I can.” 

“ Well, dinner is ready and waiting for us ; so Ar- 
thur, don’t delay.” 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he answered, as he 
rushed up stairs to his dressing-room. 

As Mrs. Erolt helped Sarah lay aside her cloak and 
bonnet, she said softly : 

“ I suppose you and Arthur will be getting married, 
now that he has a regular salary assured him ?” 

“We were talking it over as we came up,” Sarah 
assented, “ and I promised to think about it and tell 
him to-morrow. I shall have so much to do to get 
ready you know.” 

“ You will have a quiet wedding, dear, won’t you? 
For you know neither Arthur nor myself would like 
gaiety now.” 

“It would be very quiet anyhow, for I never did 
like large weddings, and I had much rather papa 
should give me the money than spend it on a ‘ blow- 
out’ for me.” 

“ Like John Gilpin’s wife, you have a frugal mind.” 


72 


THE UNPARDONABLE SiN. 


“Are you ready for dinner ?” exclaimed Arthur, 
entering the room. “ Come, then, for I'm hungry as a 
bear just awake from a winter’s hibernation.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A COUNTRY COTTAGE. 

Lillian and Willie Randolph spent many weary days 
hunting for a cottage that would suit them. At first 
they enjoyed looking at houses and taking short trips 
into the country, but soon the novelty wore off and 
the task became irksome. 

Willie Randolph was one of those men who believe 
in the efficacy of advertising, and accordingly the 
following notice was inserted in the Sunday edition of 
the 4 Trumpet : 

Wanted — For the summer, by a lady and gentleman, a small 
cottage within a half an hour from New York. Address 

Randolph had gone as far as this in writing out the 
advertisement when he turned to Lillian, who was look- 
ing over his shoulder, and said : 

“ What name shall I sign ?” 

“ Sign your own, of course.” 

“ Not much !” 

“ Well, then, sign mine !” 

“ You can just bet I won’t !” 

f ‘ Sign it ‘ Bill ’ !” 

“ That’s too undignified. Who’d let a house — a de- 
cent house — to ‘ Bill ’ ?” 

At this instant Lillian’s pet dog — the pug, by the 
name of Scrappie, — came trotting up and jumped upon 
her, asking for recognition. As she stooped to pat 
him she apparently solved the problem that perplexed 
him; and rising she said to Randolph who sat biting 
the end of the penholder, “ Sign it Scrappie !” 

“ Just the thing,” Randolph exclaimed, as he wrote 
the name at the foot of the advertisement, “He}^ 


A COUNTRY COTTAGE. 73 

Scrappie ? Does little doggie want to advertise in the 
newspapers ?” 

Scrappie jumped about and barked at the notice 
given him. 

“ See,” laughed Lillian, “ he says yes.” 

“ Do you say yes, Scrappie ?” Randolph inquired of 
the pug. “ Well, when the answers come, I will bring 
them up here and Missy can read them to you.” 

At last the advertisement was fairly written out, 
and Randolph put it aside to be carried to the news- 
paper office when he went down town the following 
morning. 

The custom of advertising one’s wants seems, to any 
one who has never advertised, a curious one. Such a 
person has no idea how many men, women and children 
there are who seldom have a want but that they adver- 
tise it. Glance over the advertising sheets of any of 
the large daily newspapers, and especially the Sunday 
edition, and see what curious notices one reads. Here 
is a wife who advertises for a missing husband ; here 
an ex-athlete offers for sale, cheap , a set of clubs and 
dumbbells; one wants a home; another a room, fur- 
nished or unfurnished ; one wants a carriage, another 
has carriages for sale ; situations are advertised for 
and offered ; and page after page, and column after 
column are filled up by the mention of needs and offer- 
ings. One sometimes gets a curious insight into hu- 
man nature and one-half of the world begins to learn 
how the other half lives from reading the newspapers 
— the advertising columns, that is for they contain 
all of the truth of the entire paper. 

Willie Randolph was one of those men vyho believe 
in advertising. He advertised for everything, from 
the hiring of an office-boy to the hiring of a house. 

The advertisement was inserted in the Sunday 
Trumpet , and Randolph bought two copies of the 
paper. “One for you, Lillian,” he facetiously re- 
marked, “and one for Scrappie.” 

“See, Scrappie!” Lillian called out, “Master has 
bought a paper for you.” 

“It looks very nice, don’t it?” 

“ Fascinating and irresistible,” Randolph remarked, 
jokingly. 


74 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


The next day Randolph went down to his office as 
usual, and when he had opened his mail he bethought 
himself of the advertisement. He touched the bell 
upon his desk, and the office boy, who had been chat- 
ting with other office boys in the hallway, came in. 

“ Ed,” said Randolph, “ take this up to the Trumpet 
office, and get what answers there are to it,” and he 
handed him the slip of paper which entitled the bearer 
to all answers to Scrappie’s advertisement. 

The office boy came back in half an hour, bearing a 
package of letters, perhaps a dozen in all — so prompt 
had some persons been to read and answer. 

“ Let us go to-morrow and look at some of these,” 
Lillian said, when Randolph brought the letters home 
with him. 

“ Oh, not so soon,” he replied ; “ wait until Wednes- 
day, when everyone has had a chance to see the ad.” 

As a result of their searches, they found a pleasant 
little cottage at Tremont, a village lying indeed within 
the city limits of Hew York, but yet really a country 
settlement. It was but twenty minutes from the 
Grand Central depot, and the commutation was but 
fifteen cents a day. 

The cottage itself was a wooden structure with a 
peaked roof, and all the prettier from having no ‘ ‘ gin- 
ger-bread-work ” about it. But what took their fancy 
more than all else was the fact that at the front and 
on the sides there was a wide piazza, with rose bushes 
and honeysuckle and wisteria clambering about it. A 
short grass-plot between it and the road might be dig- 
nified by an imaginative person as “ the lawn,” and at 
the back was space for a garden, perhaps one hundred 
feet long and fifty feet wide. Still further back of this 
was a tiny stable. 

The cottage itself had four rooms on the first 
floor — parlor, dining room, pantry and kitchen, three 
bedrooms and bath-room on the second floor, and in 
the garret two more bedrooms. Gas and water were 
over the entire house. 

Lillian was delighted with it when she saw it, and 
even Randolph, slow as he was to commit himself by 
an opinion, admitted he thought it would do. They 
went over the house from top to bottom, poking over 


A COUNTRY COTTAGE. 


75 


tlie cellar and ascending- to the garret. They smelt of 
the waste pipes to see if they could detect evidences of 
had sewerage, turned the faucets to see if the water 
ran, lit the gas to see if the burners were in good con- 
dition. They even went over the stable and climbed 
up into the loft. 

They found some things to condemn, of course, but 
not many ; and after they had returned to town, Ran- 
dolph commenced to dicker for its lease. 

The house was represented as thoroughly furnished, 
but Lillian saw that many of her own belongings would 
have to be added, if they wished to be comfortable. 
Still there was scarcely more than two large wagon 
loads to be moved, and as Randolph succeeded in hav- 
ing the cost of this deducted from the rent they decided 
to take the cottage and give up their flat. 

“We can easily hire another flat, when we come 
back for the winter,” Lillian remarked. 

“ If we save the rent of the flat, then we can afford 
to keep a horse,” Randolph answered. 

Lillian hired a stout negro woman as cook and 
laundress, and Randolph engaged a man, who lived in 
Tremont, to attend to the garden and stable. Then 
Lillian’s work began. Accompanied by her sable hand- 
maiden, she made daily trips to Tremont until the 
whole house, floors, woodwork, and paint had been 
scrubbed and scoured, carpets taken up, beaten and 
relaid, chlorides poured down the pipes, and insect 
powder blown into every crack and crevice. Under 
her supervision the grass on the lawn was mowed , the 
garden dug over and seeds planted, the vines around 
the piazzas trimmed and strings arranged for the 
shoots to clamber up. 

Randolph bore the trial of these times patiently, 
waiting at the flat when he got there and found Lillian 
not yet returned, taking her out to a restaurant, when 
she declared that she was too tired to cook dinner, and 
rising early in the morning, and eating a hurried 
breakfast when she wished to get away early. At last, 
even Lillian pronounced the cottage as clean and as 
habitable as it could be made, so their own furniture 
was moved into it. Randolph delivered the keys of 
the flat to the landlord, and that night they slept at 


76 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Tremont. Scrappie, the pug*, was perhaps the most 
delighted of the three, and showed more activity and 
playfulness than a pug* usually does. 

Arthur Erolt was anxious to recognize in some sub- 
stantial way the favor which Randolph had done him 
in obtaining* him the clerkship in the bank. He 
thought over different methods but could decide on 
nothing that seemed to him suitable until one day, 
Randolph said to him : 

“ Erolt, I want to buy a horse and wagon, and I 
declare that I don’t know where to get them.” 

“ Have you advertised?” Erolt answered, knowing 
Randolph’s faith in that manner of making his wants 
known. “ Have you advertised ?” 

“ Yes, but I have found nothing to suit me. I’ve 
got my eye on a horse, but I can’t find a carriage.” 

It had so chanced that a week or so before one of 
Erolt’s friends had mentioned in Erolt’s hearing that 
he wished to sell a low phaeton, and this occurred to 
him as Randolph spoke. 

“ What sort of a carriage do you want ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, anything that will do to ride about the country. 
We shall not put on any style, you know. A second- 
hand one, probably, for it can be bought cheaper.” 

“ I think I know of one. I will find out about it and 
let you know.” 

Arthur inquired that night about it, and finding 
that it was still unsold he bought it. The next day he 
told Randolph what he had done, and added : «“ I want 
to make it a present to you.” 

“A present !” exclaimed Randolph With surprise. 
“ Oh, no ! let me pay for it.” 

“ I would really like to give it to you if you will let 
me,” Arthur said. 

“ Of course, if you really want to, I will take it,” 
Randolph answered, “but 1 cannot help thinking that 
I sort of asked you for it.” 

“ Asked me for it ? Hot at all ; you only mentioned 
that you wanted to buy one. I shall be much obliged 
to you for accepting it. Where is your horse ? I will 
have the phaeton sent over there, and you can drive up.” 

Randolph determined not to tell Lillian of this new 
“ turnout,” but to surprise her by driving out. He 


A COUNTRY COTTAGE. 


77 


had kept many horses in the years when he was rich, 
and was fond of them, and knew a great deal* about 
them — so much about them that he often declared that 
purchasing a horse was like buying a ticket in the lot- 
tery — sometimes you got a prize, and sometimes you 
did not. This time, however, he was fortunate, and 
with every mile that the little sorrel horse trotted 
toward Tremont, Randolph grew more pleased with 
him. He had told Lillian that morning that he would 
not be home until later than usual, and timed himself 
so that he might arrive just before their dinner hour ; 
but his steed proved so good a traveler that he reached 
Tremont earlier than he expected. 

As he came in sight of the cottage, he saw Lillian 
come out from the gate and walk down the road, 
Scrappie running from side to side ahead. 

“ She is going down to the depot to meet me,” he 
chuckled to him. “I wonder if shell pay any atten- 
tion to the wagon and notice me. By Jove, if she 
don’t, I’ll drive past her before I call her attention.” 

As he drew near to her he did not dare to look full 
at her lest the magnetism of his gaze should cause her 
to glance up at him ; but he could not help glancing at 
her out of the corner of his eyes. 

She paid no attention to him, but walked on, and he 
would have passed her unnoticed if it had not been for 
the dog. Scrappie, having more curiosity, and less to 
occupy his mind than his mistress, took note of the 
carriage as it rolled by, and recognizing his master, he 
gave a few glad barks, and commenced to rush after 
him. 

In vain Randolph said to him, low so that Lillian 
should not hear, “ Go back, Scrappie ! go to missy !” 

Scrappie would not hear, or hearing, would not obey. 
His barking roused Lillian from her reverie, and she 
turned to see what the matter was. 

“ I could not imagine what possessed Scrappie,” she 
said afterward to Randolph, “ when I saw him racing 
after that carriage. He had never done so before, and 
I did not recognize you at first ; but when you turned 
your head to speak to him then I saw your face, knew 
you, and called to you.” 

“ And I came,” Randolph added jocosely. 


78 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ And we rode home together/’ replied Lillian 
laughing. 

In the meantime, the sorrel horse had been duly in- 
stalled in the stable and carefully rubbed down and 
dried. He was not very hot, for he was in good con- 
dition, and Randolph had driven slowly. 

Lillian soon learned how to drive, and with Scrappie 
by her side, she would amuse herself by driving over 
the country roads, always returning in time to meet 
Randolph at the station ; and he, when he could leave 
the Bank early, would come up and drive with her. 
On Sunday afternoons, when it did not rain, they al- 
ways went off for a drive together. 

Lillian got to know the country roads about Tre- 
mont very well, and often amused Randolph and Erolt 
with droll accounts of the queer people she had passed 
in her drive. Erolt was often at the cottage then, for 
his mother and sweetheart were away in the country, 
and the lonely house in Brooklyn was not so pleasant 
as the cottage at Tremont. 

Pretty soon, however, the two men began to notice 
that there was one man who Lillian described as hav- 
ing met four or five times a week. No matter what 
road she took she was pretty sure to meet him. He 
drove a span of horses, and seemed to be always alone. 

Randolph and Erolt began to joke her about him. 
They gave him the name of “the Mysterious Stranger.” 
Sometimes they declared that she had made a “ mash ” 
of Vanderbilt, Work, and other owners of fast horses. 
Then again, they pretended to be incredulous and pro- 
tested that they did not believe that she had met any- 
one ; that she had merely fancied that she did, and 
that “ The Mysterious Stranger ” was but a creation 
of her own imagination, and had no real existence. 
The one fact which they had to sustain this theory and 
which they never failed to dwell upon when they were 
enunciating it was, that he was never met when Ran- 
dolph and Lillian were driving together. 

Lillian bore their teasing pretty well, and if their 
raillery became too warm she always managed to turn 
the conversation by telling of some new trick of the 
horse or some other incident in her drives. Those who 
have owned a horse and made a pet of him, know that 


A COUNTRY COTTAGE. 79 

not a day passes but that something’ noteworthy hap- 
pens. 

Or if there was a dearth of horse news, she would 
always make the two men laugh over her descriptions 
of the calamities which befell her flowers and vege- 
tables. In one part of the garden she had planted a bed 
of mignonette seeds, and waited patiently to see the 
plants come up. After she had waited for a long while 
she began to wonder that there were no signs of them. 
The days following the planting of the seeds had been 
very windy, and the ground dry and dusty, and she 
thought that perhaps this had delayed their growth. 
When she had waited two weeks And there was yet no 
sign of them, she gave them up and planted something 
else in their places. She was more fortunate with 
these seeds for they were sown just before a shower 
of rain, and came up nicely. Still once in a while she 
could not help wondering what had become of her mig- 
nonette seeds. It was not until August that she found 
them. Going one day to the stable, she smelt the 
perfume of mignonette. She stopped and sniffed it, 
wondering where it came from. It was so strong that 
she followed the odor, searching for the plant. She 
found them in one corner of the garden where the 
fence joined the barn — a tangled mass of leaves and 
flowers and stems. The mignonette seeds and the 
dry dust in which they had been planted had been 
moved by the wind and deposited here. 

This was but one of the incidents connected with the 
garden ; there were amusing ones connected with the 
house, and Scrappie was either guilty of some fresh 
mischief or credited with some new freak. One time 
he was reported to have killed a rat, at another, a 
neighbor’s cat had strayed into the house and Scrappie 
had chased her from cellar to garret, and from garret 
to cellar. 

On this last occasion Randolph himself was forced 
to go in person and apologize to the cat’s mistress, but 
even then the entente cor diale was never quite re- 
newed. 

Such were the trifles that marked Lillian’s life in 
the country, and by narrating 'them she often turned 
tlie conversation. Randolph once jokingly remarked 


80 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


that if he wanted to hear what had been going* on 
about the cottage he had only to tease Lillian a little 
about “The Mysterious Stranger.” 


CHAPTER X. 

LILLIAN MAKES A CONQUEST. 

One Sunday morning about eleven o’clock Lillian 
and Randolph were breakfasting together. It so hap- 
pened that this was one of the few Sundays during the 
summer that no guest was staying with them, and 
they were alone. Partly to commemorate this circum- 
stance, and partly in obedience to an idle whim, Lillian 
had caused the breakfast table to be set out upon the 
rear piazza, behind the screen of vines. 

Sunday was a day of rest for Randolph. He rose 
as late as he possibly could, and sat up on Saturday 
night until sleep fairly overpowered him. He never 
went to church, for in his early days he saw a gross 
injustice Wrought out by a clergyman, and from that 
day could never be made to believe that any of the 
class were sincere or themselves believed what they 
taught. Sunday, therefore, had come to him to mean 
all that it meant to our first parents all that it meant 
to the early Christians — a day of rest. 

This Sunday was no exception to the general rule, 
and it was nearly noon when he descended to break- 
fast. Lillian had been up earlier and had gathered 
flowers to deck the table and had plucked raspberries 
from the vines to form a dish of fresh fruit. 

The daity papers had been left at the house in the 
early morning, and Randolph and Lillian lingered over 
their breakfast reading them. 

The day itself was a typical day of rest. There had 
been a shower during the night, and every leaf upon 
the trees and shrubs and vines, and every blade of 
grass seemed endowed with a fresher green. There 
was not even a breath of wind to stir the leaves on the 


LILLIAN MAKES A CONQUEST. 


81 


trees ; the earth was now and then shaded by clouds 
which passed before the sun and tempered the heat. 
Even the ordinary sounds of nature seemed to be 
hushed in a noon-day siesta. Everything- was calm 
and quiet and still. Yet nature was very lovely even 
in the deep repose in which it was. 

“ What a day to rest !” Randolph remarked at last 
laying down his newspaper. “ Even nature herself 
seems for once to be idle.” 

“ She is but resting a little while,” Lillian replied. 
“ When I went out this morning she was indeed busy. 
Everything seemed to have new vigor from the shower 
of last night. My plants had put forth new shoots, 
and the air was filled with the fragrance of bursting 
buds and opening leaves. Nature may be idle now, 
for she was busy enough before.” 

“ The shower has cooled the earth and air, so that 
the heat is not oppressive,” Randolph said. “ Yester- 
day I was dreading a terribly hot Sunday. I sup- 
pose that you will take me driving this afternoon, 
and if it grows no warmer we can start earlier than 
usual.” 

“1 propose to start at half-past four, and get back 
about half-past seven. You may loaf about the place 
in smoking jacket and slippers until four o’clock ; then 
you must dress and be ready for me when the carriage 
comes.” 

“All right,” Randolph answered, and yet at a 
quarter past four, when Lillian, seeing no sign of his 
preparation for a drive, took her parasol and went out 
to hunt him up, she found him- in a hammock under an 
apple tree near the stable, fast asleep. By his side, 
upon the'grass, lay his book and half-burned cigar, 
where he had dropped them when he fell asleep, and 
keeping watch by them lay Scrappie, stretched at full 
length upon the ground. 

Lillian laughed softly to herself, as she found them. 
“ Just as I expected,” she said. “ I don’t see how any- 
one can sleep as much as Willie does.” 

She did not stop to think that sleep is more import- 
ant to the brain than to the body, that Randolph, 
during the week was perplexed with mental cares and 
worries, and rose early, shortening his hours of slum- 


82 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


ber, that he might breakfast and catch the train, and 
be at the bank by half-past nine. He relied on his 
Sunday slumbers to restore what he lost during- the 
week. 

‘‘I think,” he had once said to Lillian, “ I think I 
could almost go without eating if I could sleep long 
enough.” 

“ It would be a great deal cheaper if you could,” she 
had answered jocosely. 

She remembered this conversation as she watched 
him, and stood for a moment irresolute whether to 
awaken him or not. At last with a smile upon her 
face, she reached down, plucked a long blade of grass 
and began to tickle his neck. He moved uneasily, put 
up his hand to brush the annoyance away, and opened 
his eyes to find her standing by him. 

“ Ah-h-h !” he said, gaping, “ is it time to drive?” 

“ We’ll start as soon as you are ready. I hope you 
had a pleasant nap.” 

“ I only slept a few minutes I think,” he replied, as 
he gathered up his book and cigar and walked towards 
the house, blinking his eyes in the bright glare of the 
sun. “ If you will tell Pat to bring the carriage up, I 
will be dressed almost as soon as it is at the door.” 

“ Where do you intend to go ?” Randolph asked, as 
they passed out the gate into the highway. 

“■ I found a pretty road leading over towards River- 
dale that I thought I would show you, unless you wish 
to go somewhere else ?” 

“ Oh, no ! Let us go wherever you think best.” 

“ The road is shady, and for that reason will be more 
pleasant this warm afternoon.” 

“ I thought you had such a dislike for the Hudson 
that you did not care for its banks.” 

“ Nor do 1 care to live on them, but to visit them is 
another matter. There are a few pretty drives along 
them, but I prefer, generally, to drive over to the 
Sound.” 

“ I wish we could have taken a cottage on the river 
and have the benefit of the water, bathing and so forth, 
but every house within our means was too far distant 
from New York.” 

The road which Lillian took was an old countrv road 


LILLIAN MAKES A CONQUEST. 


83 


which twisted and turned, opening- new vistas of 
meadow and w T oodland as they rounded its curves. It 
led them northward until they passed Jerome Park at 
its upper end, and crossing the Croton aqueduct, began 
a long descent towards Van Cortlandt’s. 

“ 1 wonder,” Randolph remarked, as they descended 
the rather steep pitch of the road just before arriving 
at the railroad track, then unused, “ I wonder if you 
and I will live long enough to see this tract of land 
covered with blocks of houses.” 

“ I do not believe we will,” Lillian answered, “ there 
is too much land yet within Manhattan Island to be 
built upon? It will be many, many years before these 
lands come into the market for building purposes.” 

“ And in the meantime, I suppose,” Randolph said, 
“ that taxes and assessments will eat up the fortunes 
of the present owners.” 

Crossing the railroad track they followed the country 
road to a wide broad avenue, down which they drove a 
little distance, and then turning to the right began to 
ascend a steep road through the’ woods. This led them, 
past country seats with stone houses of quaint archi- 
tecture to Riverdale avenue, another broad drive well 
macadamized. Up this they drove until they passed 
a pretty little church and parsonage and turned, through 
a gateway, abruptly into a side road. 

“But these are private grounds, are they not?” 
Randolph asked. 

“ I suppose so,” Lillian answered. “I believe a lot 
of millionaires live here all in a bunch. No doubt they 
would like to turn us out, and if they want to they can 
try.” 

“ Why, if you think thus, did you come into their 
grounds ?” 

* ‘ Because they are pretty and I wanted to show them 
to you. See, on the left, that pasture with cows and 
chickens feeding. What could be more ^country -like ? 
Who would imagine that we were within the boundaries 
of New York ?” 

Winding through these roads, past some half a dozen 
of places kept in the highest order by a multitude of 
trained gardeners, they came at last to the road lead- 
ing to the Riverdale station, and saw before them, the 


84 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


broad expanse of the Hudson with the Palisades rising 
abruptly, apparently from the water’s edge. 

44 Were you ever at the ba.se of the Palisades ?” Lil- 
lian asked. 

44 Once I was,” Randolph responded. 44 There is 
quite a stretch of gently sloping ground before you 
come to the steep rocks.” 

Again Lillian turned to the right, and they drove 
through a narrow lane, bordered at first by stone 
walks, beyond which they caught glimpses of smooth 
lawns ; then the walks ceased, and the trees grew 
close by the roadside, and at one place the lane led 
across the slope of a hillside at the foot of which ran a 
stream, still swollen with the drainage of last night’s 
shower. It was a wild and picturesque bit of scenery, 
and they stopped the horse to look at it. Randolph 
jumped from the wagon and plucked a few w T ild flowers 
and ferns, which Lillian pinned to her dress. 

The lane led them again into Riverdale avenue, close 
by the grounds of the Roman Catholic convent. 

“ Now we are on our way home,” Lillian said, as she 
turned the horse’s head eastward. 

4 4 1 have enjoyed the drive immensely,” Randolph 
answered, 44 and seen a part of New York of which I 
had, before this, no idea. I have a good appetite for 
dinner, too.” 

As they drove along a road, about a quarter of a 
mile from home, they saw a span of horses and a light 
buggy approaching them. 

44 Hello ! here comes a pair of trotters,” Randolph 
remarked. 

Lillian laughed. 

44 Why do you laugh ?” Randolph queried. 

44 Do you know who that is ?” 

44 No. Who?” 

44 It is the mysterious stranger. 

44 By jove, is it? Pass him slowly so that I can see 
what he looks like.” 

As the two wagons drew abreast of each other, Lil- 
lian was astonished to see the stranger pull up and 
smilingly nod to Randolph. 

4 4 Hold on a minute, Lillian,” exclaimed the latter. 
44 That’s Foerster, the cashier ; I’ll get out and speak 
to him.” 


LILLIAN MAKES A CONQUEST. 


85 


Lillian stopped, and Randolph, jumping 1 out, walked 
back to the cashier’s wagon. After the}^ talked to- 
gether, Lillian saw the cashier turn around and drive 
towards her. 

“ Lillian,” said Randolph, “ I want you to know Mr. 
Foerster.” 

“ I have seen him many times before,” she said, 
smiling and blushing prettily, as she bowed to him. 

“ He is coming to dinner,” Randolph said. 

“ If you will second the invitation, I shall be glad to 
accept it,” said the cashier, looking towards Lillian. 

“ I second it gladly,” she replie 1, “ and I hope you 
will like what you will have to eat.” 

u I know we have a young turkey, for I bought it 
myself,” interposed Randolph; “it’s a good one, 
though not like the Avidow Van Cott’s.” 

“ How was that ?” said the cashier. 

“ What ! haven’t you heard of the widow Van Cott’s 
turkey ?” Randolph said. “ It was so fat, so' plump, 
that just before it was to be killed, the limb on which it 
roosted broke, and it fell to the ground. It was so 
plump that it burst open and great gobs of fat rolled 
out.” 

“Come, come!” Lillian ejaculated impatiently; 
“ don’t stop there all the time talking, but jump in and 
let us show Mr. Foerster the way home.” 

Almost immediately upon their arrival at the cottage, 
dinner was announced, and as all three had good ap- 
petites, the dinner passed off succssfully. 

“ It is curious,” Randolph said, as they all sat on the 
piazza after dinner, the two men smoking their cigars; 
“ it is curious that we never met you driving before.” 

“ I have met Mrs. Randolph often.” 

“Yes, but always when she was alone, never when 
I was with her.” 

“ I seldom drive on Sunday; I did not know that you 
lived up this way.” 

“ We only moved up in May.” 

“ You seem to have found a very nice house.” 

“ It is a little larger than necessary, but we are 
quite proud of it. I’ll show it to you if you don’t mind,” 
Randolph said, rising. 

“1 should like to see it very much,” said Foer- 


86 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


ster, as he rose. 44 Will you come, too, Mrs. Ran- 
dolph ?” 

44 No, thank you ; I will stay here until you come 
back.” 

Randolph showed his guest through the house, ex- 
plaining' the various uses to which they had put the 
various rooms. 

44 This is Erolt’s,” he said, opening a door on the 
second floor. 

44 Mr. Erolt’s !” Foerster exclaimed with surprise, 
44 does he often come here ?” 

4 4 He has taken the room for the summer. You see 
Lillian thought that we could utilize the rooms which 
we did not use by letting them to boarders ; but Erolt 
is the only one we have secured as yet. We have this 
one room vacant yet and one room upstairs,” Ran- 
dolph continued, as he threw open another door. 

44 Will you take me as a lodger ?” Foerster asked. 

44 1 should be very glad to do so,” Randolph re- 
sponded, 44 but you will have to speak to Lillian about 
it, she is the ruler of the house.” 

44 Mrs. Lillian,” began Foerster, when he returned 
to the piazza; 44 Randolph says you have a spare room 
upstairs. Will you take me as a lodger?” 

44 1 am afraid that I could not give you satisfaction.” 

44 1 will take the risk of that if you will let me come 
here.” 

Lillian caught a glimpse of Randolph nodding to 
her, and so she said, 44 If you will take the chance, Mr. 
Foerster, you may come and make a trial of it for a 
week. Our terms are ten dollars a week.” 

44 It is settled then,” said Foerster. 44 Is there any 
place near here that I can keep my horses ?” 

44 There are three stalls in the stable, but we only 
use one. But I don’t know whether Pat could take 
care of three horses.” 

44 Better not make the experiment,” Foerster re- 
marked, 44 horses, when they come in warm should 
receive immediate attention. Let Pat get a helper and 
I will pay for him.” 

44 Will you not stay here to-night then, and you can 
manage about it in the morning ?” Randolph suggested. 

44 Thanks/ you are very good,” Foerster" replied, 


LILLIAN MAKES A CONQUEST. 


87 


“ but I must get home to-night. The moon will be 
nearly full, and it will be a charming drive.” 

“ You have a good pair of horses, so that your home- 
ward journey will not be long.” 

“ A first-rate pair, and they are great pets too.” 

“ What are their names ?” It was Lillian who 
asked this question. 

“ Dandy and Duchess,” Foerster answered. “ J had 
them nearly a year before I could decide upon names 
for them, but one day I was reading a novel where a 
pair of horses were called respectively by those names, 
and they struck my fancy at once, so I gave them 
to my horses.” 

“ It is often very hard work naming one’s pets,” 
Randolph remarked. “We were for a long time puz- 
zled what to call Scrappie. I don’t remember how we 
hit on his name. How was it, Lillian ?” 

‘ ‘ Benny gave him the name, and said that it had 
once belonged to a dog of his own.” 

“ Benny ? Who is he ?” Foerster asked. 

“ Benny Moore. I don’t think you know him,” 
Randolph replied. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon for my question then,” 
Foerster made haste to say, “I thought from the way 
your wife spoke, that it was some one whom I ought 
to have known. ” 

On the afternoon of the following day the cashier 
drove up again to Tremont, and arranged with Patrick 
about the care of the horses, and on Wednesday he 
sent his trunk up and drove himself there. 

“You will find it hard work to get up in the morn- 
ing at seven o’clock, which you must do if you w T ould 
get to the bank before ten,” Randolph had said to him. 

“ Getting' up in the morning is something which 
seldom troubles me,” he had answered. “ I should 
like to get to bed early and get up at sunrise.” 

From the time of his first arrival at the house, the 
cashier was devoted to Lillian. He seldom came from 
town without some little token for her, such as a basket 
of fruit, a box of bonbons, or a few flowers. When he 
drove, he begged her to be his companion, and when 
he discovered that she liked the excitement of fast driv- 
ing, he put his horses to their swiftest gait. 


88 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Lillian, Randolph and Erolt had many a quiet joke 
over his attentions, and as Lillian shared her presents 
of fruit and candy with them, they were the gainers 
by the cashier’s infatuation. 

Infatuated he really was. He had been “mashed” 
on Lillian ever since he had first met her driving on 
the country roads, and his association with her in the 
house seemed but to deepen the impressions which she 
had previously made, and she, innocent of the danger 
to which the pleasant path was trending, ignorant of 
his real feelings to her, treated his admiration as a 
joke — a thing to laugh about behind his back. 


CHAPTER XI. 

PREPARING FOR A BUSY DAY. 

Lillian would have been almost more than human if 
she had been able to resist the fascinations which John 
Foerster put in her way. With his salary of seven 
thousand a year from the bank and such additional 
amounts as his secret speculations in Wall street 
brought in, to say nothing of the perquisites which 
appertained to a cashier’s position and the ubstantial 
commissions which he received from parties desirous 
of obtaining favors from the bank, he was able to 
dazzle Lillian with a show of wealth. That he was 
genuinely in love with her there could be little doubt. 
Although Lillian and Randolph seemed blind to the 
fact, Erolt saw it plainly. He felt that perhaps it was 
his duty to say a word to Randolph about it, and yet 
he had a great hesitation about interfering. Many 
men would have held their tongues, reasoning as the 
selfish world reasons, that Randolph must take care of 
himself. But Erolt had been trained in other ways 
and taught to think of others first, and himself after- 
wards. Therefore, when he saw this chance of injury 
threatening Randolph, his first impulse was to protect 
him from it. He did, indeed, hint his fears to Randolph 


PREPARING FOR A BUSY DAY. 89 

as they sat one evening on the veranda waiting for Lil- 
lian to return from a drive with Foerster, but Randolph 
laughed at him. 

As Lillian was driven up, both men sauntered down 
to the front steps and assisted her to alight. 

“ Did you have a nice drive, dear ?” Randolph 
asked, as he helped her down and kissed her. 

“ Splendid. The horses grow faster every day/’ she 
answered, as she hurried into the house. 

Summer passed, and the nights grew colder as the 
year ebbed. The green of the leaves on the trees 
turned to dull yellows and browns, but only in a few 
marshy spots were snatches of red and purple seen, 
for the autumn had been verj 7 dry and there was 
scarcely enough sap flowing through the leaf-cells for 
the frost to act upon. 

The lease of the cottage expired on the first of No- 
vember, and Lillian and Randolph remained almost 
until that date. Arthur Erolt had left them in the 
latter part of September, when his mother returned 
to town, but John Foerster still kept his room at 
the cottage, and drove up there twice or thrice a 
week. 

When Lillian and Randolph began to seriously talk 
about staying at Tremont, it was the cashier who pre- 
vailed upon them to return to town. It was he who 
drew their attention to the charming little flat fronting 
on Washington Square and which Lillian liked so much 
when she had seen it that she hired it without even 
consulting Randolph previously as to the wisdom of 
the step. She took him to see it the next day, and he 
liked it, and told her to engage it ; but it was not until 
long afterwards that she told him it was already theirs 
when he spoke thus. 

Foster was a continual visitor at the flat. . Scarcely 
a da}^ passed that he did not stop on his way to or 
from the bank, and leave a few flowers or a box of 
candy with Lillian, and, as if this was not enough, he 
took her to theaters and pleasure resorts three or four 
times a week. In fact he endeavored to make himself 
necessary to her, and if he stopped coming for a week, 
it was only that she might appreciate his absence and 
miss him. 


90 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


He had fully made up his mind that she should leave 
Randolph and come and live with him ; hut he was in 
doubt how best to arrange it. There were other cir- 
cumstances, too, which made him careful for they 
necessitated caution. He was well known in Hew 
York, and the fact of his going- about with Lillian had 
already excited comment, and remarks made about it 
had already reached his ears. As long, however, as she 
lived apart from him, this gossip would not, he 
thought, harm him ; but, if she left Randolph, his rep- 
utation for morality would be lost, and his position in 
church circles, and perhaps also in the bank, forfeited. 
Perplexed with these doubts, he moved slowly and 
cautiously towards the goal at which he aimed, 
sedulously prepared Lillian for the change so that she 
might consent when the proper time came, and re- 
doubled his attention to the Sunday-school of St. Rich- 
man’s Church. 

Affairs at the bank, in the meantime, moved pros- 
perously and smoothly. Foerster was a good business 
man, and under his management the bank made 
money. Peacock Pierpoint (somehow the nickname 
had become known on “ the street,” and was the usual 
appellation of the President behind his back) took 
much credit to himself for the bank’s prosperity, and 
indeed much teas due him for never interfering with 
his cashier. 

Peddlers of all kinds are carefully excluded from all 
well-kept offices down town. In some buildings, 
notices are posted forbidding their entrance — notices 
to which they pay no attention, however. More often, 
watchmen are stationed near the doors whose duties 
include the exclusion of this class of people. But in 
spite of all precautions, unfortunate book agents and 
venders of various goods sometimes succeed in finding 
an entrance. 

Such was the case one day when a Jew peddler was 
seen standing at the cashier’s desk. The porter at the 
door saw him almost as soon as the clerks did and 
made a rush to eject him ; but before he reached him 
the cashier was talking to him ; and the porter slunk 
back, hoping that he might escape the rebuke he fear- 
ed, but keeping out of sight. 


PREPARING FOR A BUSY DAY. 91 

The peddler had been the first to attract the cashier’s 
attention by exclaiming* as the latter looked up : 

“ Mishter, would you buy some schtockins ?” 

“ I don’t know; what have you g*ot?” asked the 
cashier. 

“ Nodingbut de colored schtockin’s,” the Jew replied, 
as he knelt down and expeditiously opened his pack 
upon the floor, displaying hose of many hues and 
variously clocked. 

“ Dere vasapair foraslientleman,” holding up for the 
cashier’s admiration a pair of fiery-red stockings with 
blue clocks worked down the sides. ‘‘Many of de 
shen tlemans of de schtock exchange hafe bought some 
of dose from me.” 

Peacock Pierpoint, who had been sitting idty at his 
desk swinging his gold-rimmed eyeglasses to and fro 
and wishing it was lunch time, had risen from his 
desk as the peddler displayed his wares, and now stood 
by the cashier’s side. 

“ What do you think of those, Mr. President ?” the 
cashier asked, when the red stockings were displayed. 

“ Horrible ! horrible !” the president replied. 

“ Perhaps de honorable shentlemans would like dis 
pair,” said the Jew, laying aside the red ones, when he 
saw they did not meet with approval, and unfolding a 
pair of sky-blue in color, embroidered with yellow 
clocks. 

“ They were too gaudy — too bright,” the cashier 
said, “ have you anything else ?” 

The Jew looked keenly at the two men and hesitat- 
ed a moment before he answered. At length he drew 
from under his coat a smaller package, and opening it, 
drew out a pair of black silk stockings. 

“That’s more like it,” the cashier exclaimed, as he 
took the offered goods, felt of them, and then handed 
them to the president remarking* : 

“ Just feel how beautifully soft and delicate they 
are.” 

“ Yes, they are fine,” the president said. Then, turn- 
ing to the Jew, he asked : 

“ What is their price ?” 

“ Von tollar and a halef, shentlemens. Only von 
tollar and a halef.” 


93 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ They are very beautiful goods/’ the president said 
as his fingers lingered lovingly among the folds of 
the soft silk. “ They were never made in this country, 
and for imported socks a dollar and a half is not 
dear.” 

“ Smuggled most likely,” the cashier remarked. 

“ Most likely,” responded the president as he handed 
them back. But the Jew bent over liis pack as if he 
had not seen the action. 

“ Here vas a peuty,” he said as he opened a pair of 
pearl gray ones. “ Only von dollar and a halef !” 

“ But I fear you have smuggled them,” the cashier 
remonstrated as he took them. 

“ No, s’ help me ! I haf bought dem from a friend 
who vas hart up and van ted de ready monish and he 
solt dem sheap for cash.” 

“ If they are not smuggled I will buy a pair,” presi- 
dent Hamilton said. 

“ Dey vas not shmuggled !” exclaimed the Jew. “ I 
haf only six left. Yich vill your honor haf ?” and as 
he spoke he spread the socks upon his pack.” 

“ I will take a black and a gray. 

“ Then I’ll follow your example, Mr. Hamilton, and 
take the rest,” the cashier said as he drew out his 
purse and counted out nine dollars.” 

. As the Jew left the bank, Tim Hagan, the porter, 
caught him by the collar and shook him as a terrier 
shakes a rat. 

“ Ocli, yer dirty Jew,” he exclaimed, “ if I ketch 
yer ’round this bank again, I’ll shake the bones out of 
y ees. ’ ’ 

“ Yell I haf sold de schtockin’s as I vas told to do, 
and I haf made more dan de nine tollars. But dat 
tarn Irishman — Ach Gott, he vas a strong mans !” so 
said the Jew to himself, when he was again on the 
street. 

Pierpoint Hamilton was very vain of his foot; vain 
of its small size, its arched instep and general shape. 
He was delighted with his purchases and showed them 
proudly to the directors who dropped in at lunch time. 
Although by no means given to hide the fact when he 
had made a good bargain, in this case he did not mention 
the price he had paid, for it was so cheap that he knew 


PREPARING FOR A BUSY DAY. 


93 


the goods must have been smuggled, and although 
he would not hesitate to bay smuggled goods, he 
would do so secretly, not openly. But that night he 
carefully drew them upon his feet before he put on his 
low, patent-leather pumps and went to the club. 

Foerster kept two pair of the socks for himself, and 
gave the others to Randolph, who was pleased with 
the present. 

Pierpoint Hamilton did not come to the bank 
the next day, but sent down a messenger with a note 
directing that his mail be sent to him at his house, and 
saying that he had a slight touch of the gout. 

The cashier checked a smile as he read the note and 
writing a short reply, gave it. with the president’s 
letters, to the messenger. A little later as he passed 
behind the desks, he noticed that Randolph, who usu- 
ally stood during business hours, had to-day a high 
stool upon which he was sitting. 

“ Ah, Mr. Randolph,” he remarked, pleasantly, 
“ have you given up standing ? I have often wondered 
that you did not sit down.” 

“ I can do my work easier if I stand,” Randolph 
answered, “ but to-day my feet pain me, and it hurts 
me to stand or walk about. I have put on slippers,” he 
continued, holding his foot out so that the cashier 
might see, “but they do but little good.” 

“You had better go home and rest them,” the 
cashier remarked ; “ Mr. Erolt wall take your place at 
the window, and Mr. Jones will act as receiving teller.” 

“ 1 believe I will follow your advice,” Randolph said, 
“ for my feet hurt me so that they distract my atten- 
tion, and I am afraid of making some mistake.” 

The cashier passed on to the receiving teller’s desk. 
“ Mr. Erolt,” he said, “ you will take Mr. Randolph’s 
place, and Mr. Jones will take yours. I will send him 
here directly. If you will come to me after three 
o’clock I will give you some hints about your work.” 

About fifteen minutes later Randolph stopped at the 
cashier’s desk. “ I am going now, Mr. Foerster,” he 
said, “ are there any instructions you would like to 
give Mr. Erolt ?” 

“ None, thanks. I’ll speak to him myself. But 
take a cab and ride home. Remember, to-morrow is 


91 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


the first of July, and we will probably have to pay out 
nearly a million on the coupon checks. So rest yonr 
feet so that you can be here then.” As the cashier 
spoke he struck the bell upon his desk three times, and 
the porter came running- to the door. “ Get a cab for 
Mr. Randolph,” he said shortly, as Tim’s red head ap- 
peared. “ I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Randolph,” 
the cashier added, ‘ ‘ that next month you will proba- 
bly be assistant cashier, and Mr. Erolt will then take 
your place permanently, so the practice he will get to- 
day will be good for him. Your cab is at the door, 
good-by.” 

After three o’clock the cashier called Arthur Erolt 
to him and said : 

“ I am very much afraid Mr. Erolt, that Randolph 
will not be able to be down to-morrow, in which case 
you will have to take his place. It is coupon day, you 
know. We will pay the coupons of the Atlantic and 
Southern, the Great West Railroads, and the Mexico 
Mine. If the coupons are presented in amounts of over 
$100, you will ask them if they want checks; if they do, 
send them to me and I will give them to them. If 
they want cash you give it to them. I have been lucky 
enough to get a large number of bills, so you won’t 
have much coin to handle. A good many will take 
checks so I don’t suppose we will use over five hundred 
thousand cash. More than that amount is in the 
vault. Don’t take money from the receiving teller. I 
never see a paying teller do that but what I think his 
bank is short of cash ; besides, in the press of business 
a counterfeit or two will be sure to slip past the most 
careful man. Take your money from the vault. 
Every bill there has been scrutinized and you won’t 
have to look at them to see if they are good. And be- 
sides it has a good effect on customers to see piles of 
money about. Be sure and take from the top and work 
downwards. Look out for Pratt & Co.’s account. 
Don’t let them overdraw more than ten thousand. 
They will have to pay coupons to-morrow, and, if they 
check on us, will have to make deposits, for their bal- 
ance is only about fifty thousand. If there is anything 
else, I’ll tell you in the morning.” 

“Very well, sir.” Erolt said, turning away. 


PREPARING FOR A BUSY DAY. 


95 


“ Hold on, Mr. Erolt,” cried the cashier calling him 
back, “ I forgot to tell you that Mr. Randolph will 
probably be promoted next month to be assistant cash- 
ier and that if everything goes right to-morrow, you 
will probably take his place as paying teller.” 

“ That’s good news,” Erolt said smilingly ; “ I shall 
be particularly careful.” 

The day following which the cashier had called 
“ coupon day ” was the first of July. Most people are 
so fortunate as to have owned bonds at some time in 
their lives, so that they know that coupons are the 
small certificates which entitle the bearer of them to 
a specified amount of money upon a specified bond. 
Many of these coupons are made payable at some spec- 
ified bank or trust company, and. a few are paid at 
the offices of the companies themselves. In the two 
latter cases cash is seldom paid, but checks are given 
for the amount of the coupons, and these checks the 
banks pay as they are presented. Interest on bonds 
is paid generally twice a year, on the first days of Jan- 
uary and July. These days are generally busy days 
at the banks. There is usually a long line of investors 
and bankers’ clerks presenting their coupons, and 
trust company’s checks, and another long line at the 
receiving teller’s windows depositing the checks and 
cash, which they obtained elsewhere. Some banks 
handle large amounts of money on these days, and, as 
the cashier had said, the Specie Payment Bank ex- 
pected to disburse about a million dollars. This money, 
thus to be paid out, is deposited previously by the 
companies, whose coupons are to be paid. 

All the clerks at the Specie Payment Bank were 
busy preparing for the work of -the following day, and 
balancing their books for the last six months, for Mr. 
Foerster exacted semi-annual and monthly balances 
from all the book-keepers. Some clerks stayed down 
at the bank as late as midnight, and the cashier him- 
self did not leave until nearly five o’clock. 

As he went down the steps he remembered that he 
had promised to take Lillian that evening to see a play 
at Wallaces Theater. As his engagement occurred 
to him he remembered, also, that he had neglected to 
purchase his tickets. He stopped at the Astor House 


96 THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 

to buy them of the agents tliene, but they were sold 
out; so he hailed a cab and stopped at the theater on 
the way home, and finding no good seats left, he hired 
a box. 

“ It is as well,” he muttered to himself, “ I can the 
better tell her what I have to say to her to-night.” 

Purchasing a bouquet, dining and dressing fully 
occupied the time up to a quarter before eight, and at 
that hour he drove up to the flat. Having passed the 
main entrance he ran up stairs, and was about to 
ring the door-bell, when he heard voices inside, and 
glancing up he saw the transom over the door was 
open. He paused to listen, for he heard Randolph’s 
and Lillian’s voices raised in altercation. He could not 
distinguish what was said, but he knew Randolph to 
be of a quick temper, and easily surmised that he was 
upbraiding Lillian. Soon he heard Lillian crying, and 
deeming that it was now time to interfere, he rang the 
bell. The peal silenced the discussion, and in a few 
minutes Randolph, with his feet bandaged and leaning 
upon a cane, opened the door. Lillian was not in the 
room, but she entered shortly, dressed to go out. As 
Foerster was late, he had time only to say a few hur- 
ried words to Randolph, bidding him not to come 
down to the bank on the morrow, unless his feet were 
better; then, as Lillian was ready, they left and were 
ushered into the box just as the play began. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FICKLE WOMAN. 

Foerster and Lillian were shown into the box just as 
the curtain rose upon a scene which Lillian never after- 
wards could recall. The cashier laid aside his coat 
and hat and gloves and assisted Lillian to disencumber 
herself of her wraps ; then he placed a chair for her 
where she could see the stage without being seen by 
the audience, placed her programme before her, and 
took his seat by her side. As he sat there toying with 


FICKLE WOMAN. 


97 


the opera-glasses and hidden from the prying* eyes of 
the play -goers, he betrayed a restlessness which Lillian 
would not have failed to notice had she not been pre- 
occupied. From where he sat he could not see her face, 
but only the oval outline of her cheek and the masses 
of brown hair coiled under the small bonnet on her 
head and half hiding* the pink shell like ear — Lillian 
had a very pretty ear. 

Towards the close of the act, however, Lillian turned 
towards him to ask him for the opera-glasses, and as he 
looked into her face, as he handed them to her, he saw 
that her eyelids were red as if she had been crying. 

Bending more closely towards her, he whispered : 
“ Your eyes are as red as if with weeping ; what is it 
that troubles you ?” 

Lillian replied not, but raised the glasses to her eyes 
and gazed long and silently at the stage. He waited 
quietly for several minutes, but when no answer came, 
he spoke again and said : 

“ There are no griefs of yours that I would not will- 
ingly console if I but knew what* they might be. Tell 
me, then, what your griefs are that I may drive them 
far away.” m 

“ They are not griefs that can be so easily consoled,” 
she said. 

“ Nay, tell them to me. Who knows but that I can 
find you a remedy for them. I have shared your 
pleasures, let me share your woes.” 

In answer Lillian shook her head, and he continued, 
slowly, whispering, and watching her closely, that he 
might note the effect of his words. “ I cannot tell you 
how it grieves me to see traces of tears which I cannot 
wipe away. I thought you were my friend, and yet 
you will not let me bear your trouble. Have you not 
seen how much I love you ? Have you not seen that 
heart and soul I am bound to you ? Oh, then, Lillian, 
let me know that my love is not unwelcome ! Prove 
then that you love me a little by trusting me with 
your sorrows.” 

As he spoke, the pale-pink hue of her complexion 
deepened into a blush, and she turned gently towards 
him, saying, softly, “ Hush ! you should not speak to 
me like that.” 


m 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ But I must/’ he urged. “I love you, Lillian, I 
love you ! I am ready to sacrifice everything* for you, 
if you will but give me love — a little love in return. ” 

Still she made no reply. 

“Everything that wealth can buy shall be yours,” 
he continued. “ You are too fair, too beautiful, too 
accomplished to lead the life of drudgery that Randolph 
dooms you to. Leave him and be my wife.” 

A faint sigh escaped her and she answered so low 
that he could scarcely catch the words : “ He struck 

me to-night. I hate him !” 

“ Ah !” The exclamation seemed involuntary, yet 
there was an intonation of joy in it that startled him, 
for carefully as he had schooled himself for this inter- 
view, and consummate actor that he was, he could not 
help regarding this act as the one thing which had 
been wanting to induce Lillian to leave Randolph. He 
seized his opportunity instantly. 

“ He is not worthy of you,” he said. “ If you will 
come to me, I pledge you that I shall never say a harsh 
word nor breathe an unkind thought about you.” 

“ Yet Randolph was ill and suffering pain,” Lillian 
murmured 

“ Would you be content to be the plaything of his 
happ3 r hours and the victim of his cross humors ?” he 
urged. “ What does he offer you compared with what 
I lay at your feet ? His love is nothing compared to 
mine. Where he would strike, I will caress. Where 
he would give silver, I would give gold . I am ready 
to leave all in New York, to travel over the world with 
you. We will go to Paris and London, and none, in 
those gay capitals, shall be dressed as well as you, 
nor be so admired nor so beautiful. I am richer than 
you have any idea of— say but one little word and it is 
yours. Say yes /” 

Low and faint her answer came, but he heard it. 

He leaned forward and kissed her. The actors on 
the stage saw him and smiled, but he heeded them not. 
He had gained his point, so what cared he for the 
criticism of the world. 

“ Come to me to-night !” he whispered. 

“ So soon !” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes ! 1 have promised you pleasure ; let us seek 


FICKLE WOMAN. 


99 


it without delay. We will take the midnight train 
away from the city, and leave the past behind us.” 

“But I cannot travel dressed as I am — without my 
trunk and satchel !” 

“ Darling, listen to me. I scarcely dared to hope 
that you would listen to my prayers, and yet some- 
thing told me that love so great as mine must he re- 
turned. And so I have provided a traveling hag with 
every luxury which you will need. I have bought our 
tickets to Montreal. Let us leave to-night. Once at 
our destination, you shall have a trousseau liner than 
woman ever dreamed of before.” 

“ And yet it is so sudden !” 

“ It is onlj r sudden if you think it so. My love has 
been the growth of tardy months. Its seeds were 
planted in the warm summer days at Tremont ; and 
now, though snow has covered the earth, m3 7 love did 
not die. Summer has come again, it has blossomed 
and burst into flower. You are the sun that has 
warmed it into maturity. Parting with Randolph 
would be but pain to 3 7 ou. You ma3 7 send him a line 
telling him that 3 7 ou have gone — but where nor with 
whom 3 7 ou need not sa3 7 . 1 pra3 7 3 7 ou, do not refuse 

the first favor that I have asked from you.” 

“ I will go,” she said simply, “ I will go with 3 T ou.” 
And as she spoke she rose as if suiting the action to 
the word. 

He, too, rose as he answered her, 

“It is well,” he said, “we’ll have time for a light 
supper, and then for Montreal !” 

Passing out of the theater, he hailed a cab and drove 
to his lodgings. 

“ Wait here for me, darling,” he said as the cab 
stopped before his door, “ I will return in one mo- 
ment.” 

She waited, and when he came back she saw that he 
wore a reddish wig over his black hair ; his beard was 
shaved off, and his face was disguised by a heavy red 
beard. He had changed his hat and clothes, too, and 
scarcety could be knoAvn as the same man. 

“ I have disguised m3 r self, 3 7 ou see,” he said to her 
as he entered the carriage. “We will be a king and 
queen henceforth, and put the past away from us.” 


100 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Driving to a house in Twenty-third street, he paid 
the driver and dismissed the cab. 

“ I wish supper for two immediately/’ he said to the 
servant who opened the door — “ in number ten— Mr. 
Melville — I sent you word this afternoon.” 

“ It is all right, sir.” 

“ You seem to have taken my consent for granted,” 
Lillian said, rather piqued, as they- were ushered into 
a room brilliantly lighted, and with a table set for two. 
“ Had I known that you were so sure of my consent, 
perhaps I might have withheld it.” 

“ You wrong me, my love,” he said, “ I wished but 
to give you pleasure, and so I planned this feast for 
you. Had you refused, these things would have 
cost but a few dollars, and what is that to my 
wealth.” 

The supper was soon served, and if either had som- 
bre forebodings about the step that they had taken, 
they drowned them in bumpers of champagne. Then, 
when the clock struck eleven, another cab was called, 
and the two travelers were carried to the railway sta- 
tion. There they found a boy awaiting them with two 
new leather bags which Foerster took. The doors of 
the platforms where the train stood were not yet open, 
but Foerster found the gateman, and he let them pass 
the barriers, and carried the bags to the sleeping- 
car. 

“I have compartments,” Foerster said, “they are 
large ones, and I trust that you will not mind the dis- 
comforts of the short journey.” m 

“ It is too late to think of that now,” Lillian an- 
swered, “ a new life has begun for us both.” 

“ What you say is true. And now I pledge my- 
self that if I can only regulate it as I hope I can, it 
will be a life without thorns.” 

“ All roses have thorns ; so we must not mind if we 
do prick our fingers once in a while,” Lillian said. 
And as the train rolled out of New York, the two 
were laughing merrily. 

The sleeping-car is one of the most amusing places 
in the world in which to study manners. It is as if 
we were taken into the very bed -rooms of the travel- 
ers. The eccentricities of women when the hour of re- 


FICKLE WOMAN. 


101 


tiring arrives, are particularly interesting. Every 
woman has a different method of doing up her back 
hair, and some very curious bunches are seen upon 
the female heads thrust out from time to time from 
between the curtains. Foerster had called Lillian to 
see one amusing sight. 

Through some mischance, the curtains of a berth 
had been pushed back ; and pinned upon their inner 
sides appeared many curious articles. A switch of 
hair hung side by side with a bunch of flowers ; a pair 
of stockings were pinned beneath certain nameless ar- 
ticles, and the whole inner surface of the curtains was 
variegated with strange and extraordinary contriv- 
ances. 

Lillian was greats amused at the disclosures, and 
was sorry when the fair occupant of the berth, aroused 
perhaps by their whisperings, pulled the curtains to. 
Lillian watched for her the next morning, and was 
amused to see that she emerged from her retirement 
without the slightest sign of discomposure at the be- 
trayal of the secrets of her toilet. 

The next morning the clerks were all assembled at 
the Specie Payment Bank, wondering at the tardiness 
of the president and cashier. Randolph arrived at a 
little before ten, having been kept awake all night, 
partly by the pain of his feet, partly by wonder at 
Lillian’s absence. Indeed, it is probable that he 
would not have come to the bank at all that day, if it 
had not been that he hoped to see Foerster, and get 
from him some reason for Lillian’s mysterious ab- 
sence, and some explanation of her curious note. He, 
too, was surprised when he found that the cashier had 
not arrived. 

Ten o’clock came, and yet neither president nor 
cashier put in an appearance. 

“ What shall we do ?” Erolt asked him, as the time 
for opening the bank arrived. 

“ I suppose I shall have to act for them until they 
come,” Randolph said. “How much mone}" have 
we ?” 

“Nearly one million in cash, about three hundred 
thousand in the Fourth National, and fifty thousand 
in the Park,” 


102 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Small balances ! Let me know what the Clear- 
ing 1 House returns are as soon as they come in.” 

“ If they are against us, we will have to send up 
cash.” 

“ I suppose so. You have the combination of the 
vault ?” 

Erolt nodded assent. 

“ Then open it and get ready for business.” 

The vault was opened, and Erolt piled notes 
and coin upon his desk in readiness for the payments 
of the day. 

“Mr. Foerster expected to give cashier’s checks,” 
Erolt said to Randolph. “ What shall I do if people 
want them?” 

“Send them to me; I will have to sign the checks 
as assistant cashier, I suppose. Foerster told me 
yesterday that I was soon to be promoted. I will 
have to act a little earlier than I expected.” 

“He told me so, too,” Erolt said, as he went back 
to his desk, and as he passed one of the book-keepers, 
he remarked to him : “ Mr. Tompkins, please keep me 
advised as to Pratt & Co.’s account.” 

The sweet chimes of old Trinity had scarcely rung 
out the prelude to the ten strokes of the clock which 
were to herald the beginning of business, when a 
string of men and boys began to form at the paying 
teller’s window. Coupons and checks were rapidly 
handed in, and Erolt as rapidly counted out the bills 
and shoved them across the glass plate beneath the 
grating of the window. At about eleven the first 
check from Pratt & Co. was presented for five thou- 
sand dollars, and as the bearer wished a check in re- 
turn, he was sent to Randolph’s desk, nearly at the 
same time the Clearing House returns came in. Ran- 
dolph breathed a sigh of relief as he saw them, for the 
Clearing House owed the bank one hundred and fifty 
dollars. 

When Erolt ’s pile of bills was exhausted, he went 
to the vault for another supply, and as he returned, 
he stopped for a moment at Randolph’s desk to say to 
him : 

“ Mr. Foerster said that Pratt & Co. were not to be 
allowed to overdraw more than ten thousand. Their 


PICKLE WOMAN. 103 

balance has pretty nearly been exhausted ; had you 
not better send word to them ?” 

“No ! who have we to send ?” Randolph answered, 
rather crossly, for there were twinges of pain in his 
foot just then. “When they have overdrawn ten 
thousand refuse their checks. Y ou have cash enough, 
I suppose? 

“ If you have not, take the cash from Johnson.” 

“ Mr. Foerster said to use that,” Erolt objected, 
somewhat doubtfully. 

“ D n Mr. Foerster !” Randolph replied sav- 

agely. “ Why don’t he come down and attend to his 
business ?” 

Before two o’clock, Pratt & Co. had overdrawn 
their account ten thousand dollars. Erolt, notwith- 
standing what Randolph had said, privately dispatch- 
ed a message to the firm, and the senior partner — 
a director in the bank — soon arrived, puffing and 
blowing : 

“What does this mean?” he said, as he reached 
the cashier’s desk, and saw Randolph sitting there. 

Randolph was suffering excruciating pain in his 
feet, and answered somewhat savagely : 

“ It means that neither the president nor the cash- 
ier are down to-day, and there is no one to sign a 
check for our money in the First National, and so we’ve 
got to get along with what cash we have in the bank.” 

“But this notice,” interposed the director, “this 
notice that you won’t pay my checks ; what does 
that mean, sir ?” and he slapped the notice down be- 
fore Randolph. 

“ It means that you’ve already overdrawn your ac- 
count, and we can’t spare the cash. For heaven’s 
sake, Mr. Pratt, if you’ve got any securities, go out 
and get some money on them and send it to us. It 
looks as if the bank would need it all before the day 
is over.” 

“If I have any securities, sir?” Mr. Randolph re- 
plied, angrily. “ Do you think, sir, that the credit of 
Pratt & Co. is limited to any beggarly ten thousand 
dollars ? No, sir ! you shall have the money in half 
an hour !” and the director stalked indignantly out 
of the bank. 


104 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“You may pay Pratt’s checks,” Randolph said, as 
he hobbled over to the paying* teller. 

Just then a hand thrust a bill through the grating, 
and a voice was heard saying something about “ a 
counterfeit.” 

“What’s that ?” Randolph exclaimed, as he took 
the bill and examined it. 

“Yes, it’s a counterfeit, and a devilish good one, 
too.” He rapidly stamped across its face the word, 
“ Counterfeit,” and handed it back. 

“ I won’t take it ; I got it here. I want another,” 
said the voice. 

“ What’s that you say ?” Randolph said. “ Mr. 
Erolt, did that man get a check cashed ?” . 

“ I remember his face and voice,” Erolt replied. 
“ Of course, I don’t remember the bill. He’s about 
the twentieth man who’s been here on a similar errand.” 

“Well, give him another,” Randolph said, “but 
as soon as this rush is over, I’ll give particular hell 
to the man who sorted those bills.” 

It seemed as if everyone who presented a coupon or 
a check, wished cash for it ; and when the last man 
was paid (about half past three o’clock that was), 
only a few thousand dollars of ready money remained 
in the vault. If it had not been for the fifty thousand 
which Pratt & Co. sent in there would not have been 
cash enough. 

As Arthur Erolt closed the paying teller’s window, 
he dropped back into a chair with a sigh of relief ; 
but his duties were not yet over. His accounts had 
yet to be made up and verified ; coupons had to be 
counted, and there were yet several hours of hard 
work before him. But lie' had a breathing spell— the 
first since ten o’clock. He rested a few minutes, and 
then went into the lunch-room to get a bit of some- 
thing, for he had been before too busy to think of ea t- 
ing. 

Between the pain of his feet and the anxiety of the 
day, Randolph felt completely worn out, and he was 
well aware that his temper was at its very worst. 
Still he could not leave the bank until he knew the 
summary of the day’s doings, and until some prepara- 
tion for the business of to-morrow had been made. 


COUNTERFEIT MONEY. 


105 


He had thrown himself on a sofa in the lunch-room 
when Erolt entered. 

a An awful day, Mr. Randolph,” Arthur remarked. 

“ Thank heaven, to-morrow is Saturday, and Sun- , 
day and Monday are holidays.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

COUNTERFEIT MONEY. 

Erolt had scarcely finished his lunch, when Tim 
Hagan, the day watchman, entered and announced, 
that two gentlemen desired to see Mr. Randolph and 
Mr. Erolt. 

“ Who are they ?” Erolt demanded. 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ Well, go out and ask their names.” 

Tim left the room and came hack shortly afterwards 
with two cards, which he handed to Erolt. 

Arthur glanced at them, and read aloud, “ Michael 
O’Flynn, Dennis Mulvaney, United States Deputy 
Marshals.” 

Randolph muttered an imprecation to the effect that 

he could not see them and that they might go to 

well, somewhere else, than the Specie Payment 
Bank. 

“ Never mind, I’ll see them,” Erolt replied as he left 
the room. He came back pretty soon, followed by 
the two officers, remarking to Randolph as he entered 
the room : 

“ This is a serious matter, Mr. Randolph. Here is a 
warrant for my arrest.” 

“Shure an’ If this is Mr. William Randolph, I’ve 
got anodder dokiment for the gentleman,” said one of 
the officers, as he handed Randolph a paper. 

“Hello,” he exclaimed, “what’s this? A warrant 
for me, too ? What’s up ?” 

“Shure, it’s only the United States District Attor- 
ney wishes to say ye two gintlemen for a few minutes,” 
the officer responded facetiously. “Will your honors 
walk or ride ?” 


106 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ You don’t mean to say tha t we have to go up there 
immediately ?” Erolt exclaimed. “ Why, we can't 
leave the business of the bank in, it's unfinished condi- 
tion !” 

“How much toime would yer honor want?” Mr. 
Mulvaney asked. 

“ Oh, a couple hours I suppose.” 

“ A couple of hours ! Now if it was a few minutes 
yer honors wished, shure we’d see no objection, would 
we, Mick ? But his honor, the disthrict attorney is 
waiting* fur yees, an’ a couple of hours is more than 
me place is wurreth.” 

“ The sooner we go the sooner we get back,” Ran- 
dolph said. “ Send Tim for a carriage.” 

In a few minutes Randolph and Erolt were before 
the district attorney. It was so late in the day, that 
the business of his office for the day was nearly over. 
He himself would have been on his way home at this 
time had it not been for the case before him, and so, as 
he was waiting for them, Randolph and Erolt were not 
kept waiting by him. 

“Gentlemen,” said the district attorney, when 
Randolph and Erolt had introduced themselves to him, 
“ gentlemen, this is a very peculiar case. A vast 
quantity of counterfeits have been put into circulation 
lately, and to-day* a great number have been traced 
to your bank. Can you give me any explanation of 
it ?” 

In as few words as he could, Erolt explained that the 
bank had to pay the coupons of several corporations ; 
that to meet these payments a large amount of bills 
had been placed in the bank's vault ; that the cashier 
alone (for Mr. Pierpoint, the president, seldom attended 
to such matters) knew whence these bills had come ; 
that, owing to some cause, yet unknown, the cashier 
had not been at the bank ; that in his absence Mr. 
Randolph had acted as cashier while he, Erolt, had 
been paying teller, and paid out the money which he 
had found in the vault ; that there had been some com- 
plaints made to him that counterfeits had been paid 
out, and in such case, he had given another bill ; that 
Mr. Randolph and himself had determined to investi- 
gate the matter as soon as they had time ; that nearly 


COUNTERFEIT MONEY. 107 

a million dollars had been paid out by the bank. That 
was all he knew of the matter. 

Much of this information had been called out in re- 
sponse to questions from the district attorney ; some 
had been volunteered by Erolt. 

When Erolt had finished, the district attorney went 
to a safe that stood at one side of his office, and took 
from it a package. 

“ I have here/’ he said “ a bundle of bills which the 
Treasury officials have sent to me, including some of 
the counterfeits. I should like you, gentlemen, to pick 
me out the counter feits.” 

“ I do not pretend to be an expert, you know,” 
Erolt said, as he took the package. 

He looked over them carefully, and threw out about 
half a dozen. When he had finished, Randolph took 
them. 

“ I think Mr. Erolt was mistaken as to this bill,” 
he remarked, as he scrutinized one of those which 
Erolt had thrown aside; “it looks to me like a genuine 
bill. But I may be mistaken, for, as I remarked to 
Mr. Erolt in the bank about the counterfeits returned 
to us, they are beautifully done. But this — this — this 
— ” he added, as he ran rapidly over the notes, and 
threw bills upon the ones which Erolt had laid aside, 
“ I should add to those which Mr. Erolt thinks bad.” 

“You have picked out all the counterfeits, gentle- 
men. I admire your skill,” said the district attorney. 
“You will be surprised when I tell you that these,” 
and he laid his hand upon the heap of counterfeits, 
were all paid out by your bank to-day. You say you 
paid out nearly a million dollars. We have already 
tracked nearly fifty thousand to you. From what I 
have learned, I should not be surprised if nearly every 
bill that the Specie Payment Bank put out to-day were 
bad.” 

Randolph and Erolt could only stare at the district 
attorney in blank amazement. 

“ Under these circumstances, gentlemen,” he con- 
tinued, “you will see that my duty clearly requires me 
to act as I have done. I wish that you would tell me 
all that you know about the cashier.” 

Randolph and Erolt told him, and the district at- 


108 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


torney called in a stenographer who took down their 
words. 

“ There is one thing else,” Randolph added, after they 
finished telling what they knew about the cashier, 
“ but as it concerns my private life, 1 should not like 
to have it made public.” 

“I pledge you my word,” said the district attorney, 
“ that what you say here to-day shall not be used in 
any way against you. I only wish this information for 
the Government detectives.” 

Then Randolph told him about Lillian’s disappear- 
ance, and his suspicion that she had gone off with the 
cashier. All of which the reader knows, but which 
Arthur Erolt heard for the first time. 

When he had finished, the district attorney spoke 
again : 

“ Evidently there has been,” he said, “a well laid 
plan to foist these counterfeits on the public through 
the agency of the Specie Payment Bank, and 1 should 
not be surprised if your cashier .was at the bottom 
of it. I am very sorry for you, gentlemen ; I believe 
you have been unfortunately made his tools, but my 
duty requires that I should ask 3 r ou to consider your- 
selves under arrest.” 

Randolph and Erolt quailed at this, for knowing but 
little of the red tape of the law, they had both expected 
to be discharged. 

After a few minutes’ hesitation, Erolt said : 

“ But how about the bank? The cashier has prob- 
ably gone off, the president is ill, and if Mr. Randolph 
and myself are not there to-morrow, the bank will 
probable have to suspend.” 

ie I have thought of that,” the district attorney 
answered. “ I see no reason why either of you gentle- 
men should be actually confined in jail. If you will 
each give me your promise to surrender yourselves 
here to me to-morrow between four and five, or when- 
ever sent for, I will parole you. Y ou will have, how- 
ever, to consider yourselves in the custody of a deputy 
marshal, one of whom must accompany you wherever 
you go.” 

Both men gave the required promise. 

“ Until we decide on our future course of action,” the 


Counterfeit money. 


109 


district attorney added, “I shall request both you 
gentlemen, to be silent as to this affair. We must, of 
course, spread abroad warnings against these danger- 
ous counterfeits, and the evening and morning papers 
will contain the requisite notices.” 

“ But look here,” Erolt said, “to-morrow there’ll 
be a crowd at the bank with the bills we paid them to- 
day. What are we to do with them ?” 

“ On that point, gentlemen, 1 am sorry I can give 
no advice,” answered the district attorney, “but I 
should suggest that you call your directors together 
to-night, and let them decide the matter. I need not 
now detain you further. In parting, however, I would 
add one word of advice, and that is to retain counsel.” 

“Who would you suggest?” queried Randolph. 

“ I know of no more honorable attorneys than Hume, 
Howell & Metzstein,” the district attorney replied; 
“but, of course, you must choose for yourselves.” 

“It is hardly necessary for me to say, for you 
already know,” Randolph said, “ that we shall be glad 
to aid the government in every way to find out the 
authors of these counterfeits.” 

Before they left, the district attorney called the two 
deputy marshals before him and said to them : 

“ I have paroled these gentlemen to appear before 
me to-morrow when they are through with their busi- 
ness. You will accompany them wherever they go, 
but will not in any way interfere with their move- 
ments.” 

“ Well, here’s a go,” Randolph remarked to Erolt. 

“Here’s a nice ending to a busy day. D n it, 

troubles never come singly. First, those infernal silk 
stockings made my feet sore ; then Lillian goes away 
and leaves me ; and, finally, we are arrested on the 
charge of conspiring with John Doe and Richard Roe, 
and other parties unknown, to circulate counterfeits.” 

“ Is that the charge ?” Erolt inquired. “ I forgot to 
ask the district attorney.” 

“ That’s what the warrant said.” 

There are some men who have that sensibility, that 
chastity of honor which feels a stain like a wound. 
Erolt was one of these. His whole life had been so 
upright and so honorable, so free from inward or out- 


110 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


ward blemish, that this accusation under which he lay 
rested on him with an infinite weight. Yet his sus- 
ceptibilities were stunned by the suddenness with 
which it had fallen, and not until later would he feel 
the whole horror of it. He knew that he was innocent 
of any guilty intention, but how far the law would 
treat his acts as criminal he was ignorant. 

When the spirit of man is first wounded, its earliest 
impulse is to seek refuge at his home; and then there 
comes, swiftly following this impulse, a wild wish to 
hide somewhere and suffer in silence and alone. 

Yet, as Arthur Erolt thought of his home, a terrible 
fear crept over him. His mother — she who had edu- 
cated him in all the precepts of honor, she who had 
given him so long a line of ancestry noted for their 
virtue and untarnished fame — what would she think of 
the accusation ? How could he go home and break the 
news to her ? 

“ Randolph,” he said, turning to his companion, “if 
you can give me a bed to-night, I will not go over to 
Brooklyn. I should have to meet with questions from 
mother and Sarah, which I could not answer, and 
which would be hard to evade. To-morrow will be 
time enough to break the bad news to them, and who 
knows what the morrow may bring forth !” 

“ It is just as well that you should do so/’ Randolph 
replied. “Ido not believe that either of us will get 
much sleep to-night, for it will be late before the direc- 
tors can be gotten together, and the meeting will be 
long and stormy. ” 

“ I had almost forgotten the meeting. I suppose 
that the first thing to do is to send off notices to the 
directors ?” 

‘ ‘ A letter and telegram must be sent to each one. 
Where shall we meet ?” 

“It will be too late to meet at the bank, I suppose ?” 

“Oh, yes; I will send word to the Fifth Avenue 
hotel, and we will meet there.” 

As soon as they reached the bank, these letters and 
telegrams were sent off. That done, Randolph called 
for all the cash in the bank, and when it was placed 
upon his table, he ran rapidly over the bills, separating 
the good from the bad. 


COUNTERFEIT MONEY. 


Ill 

‘‘ Less than a thousand dollars of good money/' be 
said to Erolt when he had finished counting the money. 
“ I will draw my check for it and take it all, for we 
will need money for our expenses the next few days.” 

During the absence of Randolph and Erolt the clerks 
at the bank had gone on with their work, and now a 
summary of the day’s business was placed before the 
former. Except for the accident of the counterfeits, 
the bank’s condition would have been sound. 

As the clerks left the bank, Randolph said to them, 
“ Gentlemen, please be here at nine o’clock to-morrow, 
for there will probably be some work before the bank 
opens.” 

“ Now, for dinner,” Randolph said to Erolt, as they 
left the bank. 44 I suppose our guardians must dine 
with us, so let us go to the St. Denis restaurant.” 

44 Shure it’s not sitting down at the same table with 
your honors that we’ll be,” said Marshal Mulvaney, 
who overheard Randolph’s remark, 44 me and my part- 
ner will take a bite of something and a sup of whiskey 
and tay at another table, an’ if your honors will pay 
the bill, shure that’s all that’s necessary.” 

44 Be it so, then,” Randolph said ; 44 order what you 
like, and I’ll pay the charges.” 

After a hearty dinner, Randolph and Erolt went to 
the Fifth Avenue hotel. They found that two parlors 
had been reserved for them, and that Pierpoint Ham- 
ilton was already there, pacing impatiently up and 
down the room, waiting for them. He was in evening 
dress, for the messenger had found him just prepared 
to leave for a dinner party. 

44 A most extraordinary proceeding, indeed, Mr. 
Randolph,” he exclaimed, as that gentleman entered 
the room ; 44 a most extraordinary proceeding to call a 
meeting of the directors here, at this hour of the night, 
without authority of the officers. A sudden secret 
meeting like this will hurt the credit of the bank if it is 
known on the street.” 

44 When you hear the cause of it, sir, you will prob- 
ably recognize that I did rightly,” Randolph answered ; 
and in as few words as possible he told him what had 
happened. 

Pierpoint Hamilton was speechless with indignation. 


112 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


His face grew red and white alternately, as surprise 
and alarm got the mastery of his indignation. 

“Did I not do right, sir?” Randolph asked, as he 
finished his narration. 

“ Where were your eyes, sir,” the president thun- 
dered ; “where were your eyes that you let those 
counterfeits creep into the bank. There lias been a 
conspiracy somewhere, sir— a conspiracy, sir, to ruin 
the Specie Payment Bank !” 

Randolph did not think it necessary to contradict 
the impotent ravings of the president, so he £at still 
and smoked his cigar. 

“ About half-past nine there was a majority of the 
directors present ; nearly all those who lived in the 
city had received their notices, and came in haste. 
As they entered one by one, Randolph and Erolt had 
put them in possession of the main facts of the case. 

Liquors and cigars had been sent for, and under 
their mollifying influence the president had calmed 
down somewhat. 

At a quarter before ten he called the meeting to 
order, and as he looked around him on the blanched 
faces his own paled. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, “at such a time as this for- 
malities should not be observed too closely. There- 
fore, if there is no objection, I will call upon Mr. Ran- 
dolph to tell us in detail all that has occurred.” 

At this, Randolph narrated all that happened since 
his parting with the cashier the day before. His 
arrival at the banking house ; the business of the 
bank ; the entrance of the deputy marshals ; the inter- 
view with the district attorney. All these things he 
told, and the directors listened to him with almost 
breathless attention. 

When he had finished, they began, one by one, to 
ask him questions, which he answered ; making clear 
points which they did not understand, or dwelling 
more in detail upon matters which he had slurred over. 

“Now, then, gentlemen,” he said, when bis inter- 
rogators seemed weary of questioning him further, 
“what shall the bank do to-morrow ? That the bank 
has paid out nearly a million dollars of counterfeits, I 
have no doubt. Nor do I doubt that we shall be 


COUNTERFEIT MONEY. 


113 


besieged to-morrow with their holders clamoring for 
good bills. What shall we do ?” 

An excited discussion followed, some suggesting one 
thing, and some another, as ideas occurred to them on 
the spur of the moment. 

“ I take the situation to be this,” said one cool- 
headed director, when the excitement had simmered 
down a little and he could gain a hearing, “ I take the 
situation to be practically this : the loans, investments 
and securities of the bank have not been touched and 
are still intact. They, I understand, are fully compe- 
tent to pay each depositor one hundred cents on the 
dollar; but certain corporations deposited with us 
cash to meet their maturing coupons : this cash proved 
to be counterfeit, or else this cash was abstracted and 
counterfeits put in its place. Now, I will ask brother 
Jenkins to tell us the legal status of the bank in regard 
to these corporations, and the holders of counterfeits 
or those who have presented coupons.” 

The director Jenkins, was a lawyer, and thus called 
upon, he answered: “A deposit of counterfeits is 
no deposit at all. The law looks upon it as a nullity. 
If, therefore, it can be proved that these corporations 
deposited counterfeits, the bank can present the cou- 
pons to them and require that they pay them. The 
law would in that case, I think, look upon the bank as 
the purchaser of these coupons — provided that the 
bank has paid good money for them. But if the bank 
has paid counterfeits for these coupons, then the law 
would not look upon it as the bona fide holder of them. 
Now, if the bank redeems their counterfeits with good 
bills, the good money takes the place of the bad, and 
tiie bank becomes the lawful owner of the coupons. 
The first question therefore is : Is the bank prepared 
to redeem these counterfeits, which I understand 
amount to nearly a million dollars?” 

A chorus of “ noes” arose from the directors. Mr. 
Jenkins refreshed himself with a draught of cham- 
pagne and continued : “ Suppose, then, that when a 
holder of counterfeits presents them to the bank, the 
bank receives them and gives him in return an equiv- 
alent amount of coupons. In such case the holder 
has choice of two options; he can either ref use to accept 


114 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


the coupons and can retain his counterfeits, or he can 
surrender his counterfeits and get the coupons. Let 
us examine his position in either case : 

“First: If he accept the coupons. In this case he 
may present them to the company, and if the corpora- 
tion refuses to pay, he may sue the corporation and 
recover judgment ; for the corporation is bound to pay 
these coupons, and the mere fact that it has given the 
money to a third party to pay these coupons, is no 
defense. For example, suppose that I owe my har- 
ness-maker one hundred dollars, and suppose that I 
give my coachman that sum, and tell him to pay it to 
the harness-maker ; and suppose that my coachman 
does not do so. My debt to the harness-maker is 
still unpaid and I can be made to pay it. The corpo- 
ration, of course, can sue the bank for the amount 
which it deposited to meet these coupons, just as I can 
sue my coachman for the hundred dollars. To this 
suit the bank can interpose the defense that the depos- 
it of the corporation was in counterfeit bills and there- 
fore no deposit. 

“ Now as to the second alternative : If the holder of 
the counterfeits prefers to retain them, he can sue the 
bank for their amount, and recover judgment ; and 
when he is paid, the bank then becomes the holder of 
his coupons. 

“ If all these people would surrender their counter- 
feits and receive their coupons, the matter would 
simply come down to one suit by the corporation 
against the bank ; but I look on this hypothesis as 
highly improbable. More than likely every man who 
holds a counterfeit will present it for redemption, or I 
should more properly say, exchange, and upon the 
bank’s refusal to exchange it, will rush off to his law- 
yer and begin suit.” 

Again there came from the directors, a chorus of 
“ Most likely,” “Of course,” etc., and again, Mr. 
Jenkins refreshed himself as he proceeded : 

“ If a multitude of these petty suits were all that 
was to be feared, I should simply say, send them to 
my firm, we will take care of them ; but such a course 
would undoubtedly inaugurate a run upon the bank, 
and we should have every depositor clamoring for his 


GOOD NIGHT, DEAR MOTHER. 115 

deposit, which of course we could not pay him until we 
turned our securities into cash. Under all these cir- 
cumstances, therefore, I see nothing- for the hank to 
do except to suspend, and for the directors to apply for 
the appointment of a receiver.” 

With these words Mr. Jenkins sat down. He had 
stated the case fairly and when the directors broke up 
and left the hotel at half-past one, it had been decided 
that he should apply immediately for a receiver, and 
that a notice of the suspension should be posted on the 
doors of the bank before business hours. 


• CHAPTER XIV. 

GOOD NIGHT, DEAR MOTHER. 

Arthur Erolt and Willie Randolph were the last to 
leave the hotel. As they were departing, a reporter 
stopped them, saying that Mr. Jenkins had given him 
a short statement of the bank’s trouble, and. that he 
hoped the cashier and paying-teller would do the 
same. 

“Then the news of our troubles will be in all the 
morning papers, will it ? ” Erolt asked. 

“ It will certainly be in the Trumpet, sir, and prob- 
ably in the others,” the reporter answered. 

“ By Jove, then !” Erolt exclaimed, “ I cannot spend 
the night with you, Randolph, but I must go home 
and break the news gently to my mother. You 
remember the bonds in which she invested all her for- 
tune were called in and paid scarcely a week ago, and 
the money from their sale deposited in the bank until 
it could be re-invested. 1 must see her before she 
reads the morning papers. Good night.” 

“ Hold on a minute,” Randolph cried, as Erolt hast- 
ily turned away from him, “ have you money enough 
for cab-fare and so forth ? ” 

“You might give me fifty dollars.” 

i ‘ Here’s a hundred. Don’t fail to be at the bank 
to-morrow.” 


116 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Erolt took the money and hurried out. Late as it 
was, he saw a cab standing at the curbstone of the 
Park opposite, and he went over to it. The driver 
was asleep inside the cab and Erolt woke him up. 

“ Drive me over to Brooklyn,” he said. “Go over 
Fulton ferry, and be as quick as you can.” 

As he jumped into the cab he saw a man standing 
by its side, whom by the lamplight he recognized as 
the deputy marshal. 

“ Here, Mr. Mulvaney,” he said, “ I had forgotten 
you. Jump in.” 

“Shure, your honor, I’ll ride on the box,” Mulvan- 
ey answered. 

“ Better get inside,” Erolt said, still holding the cab 
door open, “ the box is narrow and the night is cool, 
and you will be more comfortable here. ” 

Mulvaney got in and Erolt gave him a cigar. 

“ I never thought to ask you whether I could go to 
Brooklyn,” Erolt said to him. “My mother has her 
money in the bank, and I wish to see her before she 
reads the daily papers.” 

“Shure, your honor can go where ye loike,” Mul- 
vaney answered, “ only I’ll have to go wid yees.” 

Erolt had intended to sleep at home, forgetting that 
the deputy would, of necessity, be obliged to sleep 
there also. But when he recalled this latter fact, he 
saw that if he slept at all it must be elsewhere than 
where his mother was. 

“ I fear I shall prevent your sleeping, Mr. Mul- 
vaney,” he said, as the cab stood on the ferry boat on 
its way to Brooklyn. 

“ No matter about me, sir,” the deputy answered. 
“ I’m used to keeping awake, and if you can stand it, I 
can.” 

“When we get home,” Erolt continued, “if my 
mother asks me who you are, I shall simply tell her 
that you are connected with the business of the bank. 
It will be a lie, but it will save her a shock; and I 
trust God will pardon me for it.” 

“ No lie at all, at all, yer honor,” Mulvanejr an- 
swered. “Shure, it’s on account of the day’s business 
at the bank that I’m wid ye now. And if the ould lady 
asks me any questions, I’ll tell her the same meself.” 


GOOD NIGHT, DEAR MOTHER. 


117 


Leaning* out of the window, Erolt g*ave the cab- 
driver directions which way to drive when they left 
the boat, and cabby succeeded at length in finding the 
right street, Erolt calling to him as they came to the 
proper turnings. 

As they stopped in front of the house, Erolt saw 
with astonishment that there were lights in .the win- 
dows and in the front hall. “ What can keep them up 
so late ?” he wondered, as he ascended the steps and 
rang the bell. 

The waitress opened the door, and as she saw the 
master of the house, she began to cry, exclaiming be- 
tween her sobs: “Oh, Mr. Arthur, Mr. Arthur, why 
didn’t you come»sooner ?” 

“Why, what’s the matter? My mother— is she 
ill ?” Erolt exclaimed, growing pale with dread fore- 
bodings. 

But instead of answering, the girl sat down on a 
chair that stood in the hall, and, throwing her apron 
over her head, began swaying herself from side to side, 
still sobbing. 

At this moment a man came down the stairs, and 
by the light of the hall lamp Arthur recognized him as 
a doctor living in the neighborhood, who had before 
been called in for transient ailments of his mother. 

“Ah, Doctor,” he cried, “you can tell me what is 
the matter !” 

“You have not heard !” said the physician gravely ; 
“we have sent messengers for you every where that we 
thought you would be likely to be.” 

“ My mother — ” Arthur gasped. 

“ Mr. Erolt,” said the doctor kindly, as he went 
into the parlor and Arthur followed, “you must pre- 
pare yourself for a great shock. Your mother fell, 
while descending the stairs this evening, and was seri- 
ously — shall I sa y fatally — hurt.” 

“ Oh, my God !” Erolt exclaimed, sinking back into 
a chair, “ another misfortune !” 

“Mr. Erolt,” the physician continued, “you must 
nerve yourself for still worse news.” 

“Sarah— Miss Sprague — ” Arthur gasped. 

“ Nothing has happened to Miss Sprague,” the doc- 
tor said hastily, “ that blow at least was spared to 


118 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


you. But your mother was rendered insensible by 
her fall, and when I came I found her sinking- fast.” 

“ She still lives !” Arthur cried wildly, starting up. 
“ She lives !” 

Something in the doctor’s face told him the whole 
sad truth. “ Oh mother ! mother !” he cried passion- 
ately. “ Oh mother, have you gone so suddenly — 
without one word of farewell ?” 

“ Your mother never spoke after she fell,” the doc- 
tor said; “ she was unconscious when she died. I 
sent messengers to you, but as they have not found 
you, you were not prepared for the sad tidings. You 
must not break down, Mr. Erolt, for if there ever was 
a woman prepared to die, it was your mother.” 

“She was a saint on earth,” Erolt answered fer- 
vently. 

The doctor took his leave and Erolt was forced to 
put aside his grief, and to turn his attention to the 
duties of the hour that he alone could meet. 

The cabman was paid and sent home ; the deputy 
was installed in Arthur’s own room ; the frightened 
servants were sent to bed, and the house closed. 
Arthur felt that he could not sleep, and so he took 
his Bible and went into the room adjoining his 
mother’s. 

When these things were done, he went softly into 
his mother’s room. The gas was burning and the 
window had been left partly open. The cold damp air 
of the night blew into the room, and tossed the curls 
that clustered about his forehead, and shook the cur- 
tains that were draped before the windows. Mechan- 
ically he moved the gas bracket out of the draft, then 
turned and reverently approached the bed. There lay 
his mother, seeming to sleep as he had often seen her 
resting in the afternoons of days gone by. A smile 
was on her lips, and her eyelids were closed as if in 
slumber. 

He bent down and kissed her, murmuring uncon- 
sciously, as he did so, the words that had so often been 
his parting farewell at night, Good-night and pleas- 
ant dreams, dear mother.” 

But the deadly chill of death struck down to his 
heart, and he fell upon his knees by the bedside ; and 


GOOD NIGHT, DEAR MOTHER. 


119 


as the tears coursed in torrents down his cheeks, he 
sobbed in broken accents : 

‘•Mother! oh, mother, dear! would that I had one 
word of farewell from your dear lips ! Forgive me, if 
at times I have been petulant and cross — unloving — I 
have spoken harsh words, perhaps. Oh, mother! 
mother ! forgive me ! forgive me ! ’ ’ 

He buried his face upon her bosom ; he lifted her 
cold hand and placed it on his head, where it had so 
often rested in loving tenderness in by-gone days ; and 
the deep stillness was broken only by his sobs. 

How long he stayed in that position in silent com- 
munion with the dead he never knew ; his soul seemed 
to be wandering far away from its earthly tenement ; 
until a cart, rattling noisily past, recalled it back to 
earth. Then he arose, folded the white hands peace- 
fully over the heart that was still forever, and bending 
down again imprinted a last loving kiss upon the 
marble brow. 

“ Better thus !” he murmured, as he quietly left the 
room ; “ better thus than that she should have lived 
to suffer the trials which would have fallen upon us. 
But, oh, for one last look — for one last word !” and at 
the thought tears fell afresh from his eyes. 

Day dawned and found Arthur Erolt still watching. 
The Bible lay before him unopened. He had passed 
the hours of early morning in deep and bitter reverie. 

But though the dead rest calm and still in un- 
troubled sleep, those that they leave behind them 
must take up the burden of their daily lives, and go 
about their daily duties. 

When six o’clock came, Arthur aroused the servants 
and breakfast was prepared. The many tasks that 
claimed his attention were attended to, the necessary 
telegrams were sent to the relatives of the family, the 
proper notices prepared for the papers, short notes 
were penned to the parish priest and sexton. Then a 
cab was sent for, and at half-past nine Arthur and his 
attendant were set down at the bank. 

He was pale and haggard from grief and fatigue, 
and as in a few short words he told Randolph of liis 
mother’s death he could scarcely keep back the tears 
that welled to his eyes. 


120 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“Poor Erolt,” Randolph said. “You know how 
deeply I sympathize with you. If I dared I would bid 
you leave the hank and go home, but the receiver may 
be here any minute and he must needs see you.” 

A clamorous crowd besieged the bank, for all had 
read the accounts in the morning newspapers. The 
fraud of the counterfeiters was so novel and daring, 
that the financial world was shocked and frightened. 
News of some great Asiatic calamity in which a mil- 
lion lives were lost, might have startled the world, but 
it would not have affected the men of finance and com- 
merce — it would not have shocked them — as did this 
fraud of one million of dollars. The one would have 
been merety part of the news of the day, and what 
cared they for the lives of others so long as their own 
lives were safe ? But the other touched their pockets, 
and they trembled lest their own well-beloved dollars 
should be jeopardized. 

Those who had deposits in the bank, those who held 
counterfeit bills and those who were attracted merely 
by a morbid curiosity, crowded the steps of the bank 
and read the short and simple notice posted on the 
doors, or on one pretext or another sought to gain en- 
trance past the burly policeman who stood guard over 
the half -opened passage way. 

Many rumors were rife. Some said that all the 
banks in the city had been flooded with counterfeits. 
Others declared that there was a wide-spread conspir- 
ac} 7 on the part of the bank officials to swindle the 
public. None believed that Foerster alone had been 
guilty. The names of the acting cashier and the pay- 
ing teller were known and men declaimed against them 
bn the street corners. 

The suspension of the Specie Payment Bank created 
a flurry in the stock market. Brokers and brokers’ 
clerks were seen hurrying to and fro, anxious to fill 
orders or to make good the call for more margins. At 
noon it began to rain, but the water seemed powerless 
to quell the excitement. Other banks were reported 
to be in trouble and the tumult increased. 

The steps of the sub-treasury were black with the 
umbrellas of the sight-seers, who sought that vantage 
ground of view, and scarcely a doorway or window in 


GOOD NIGHT, DEAR MOTHER. 


121 


the neighborhood was without its groups of excited 
men, eagerly discussing the situation. Here was seen 
a broker’s clerk rushing at full speed to have a check 
certified, there was an office boy darting through the 
crowd, like an eel, with a message to his employer in 
the stock-exchange. Here was seen some stout and 
dignified broker, plowing at break-neck haste through 
the crowded sidewalks, carrying his neatly-folded silk 
umbrella beneatR his arm, though his broadcloth suit 
was wet with the rain, and the drops dripped from his 
glossy hat. No time was there to spread that um- 
brella ; his whole fortune might depend upon his speedy 
arrival at his bank. 

Every now and then a carriage with prancing horses 
resplendent with silver trappings, and with coachman 
and footman on the box, came rolling down the street, 
bearing some magnate whose repose at home had been 
disturbed by the tumult. 

In the directors’ room of the Specie Payment Bank, 
the directors sat in consultation. Mr. Jenkins, himself, 
with an eye towards recouping his losses which the 
failure of the bank had caused, had exerted his in- 
fluence with the judge and had himself been appointed 
receiver. Doubtful in his own mind what to do, he had 
determined to do nothing, but nevertheless he kept the 
directors nearly the whole day debating on ways and 
means to rescue the bank. 

The only one connected with the bank, who had 
made money out of its misfortunes was John Foerster, 
the fugitive cashier. Not content with the money 
which lie had secretly abstracted from the bank-vault, 
replacing it with the counterfeit bills, he had foreseen 
the panic which the discovery of these counterfeits 
would cause, and secretly undersold the market to an 
enormous extent, working quietly and secretly through 
only one confidential friend, who in turn gave liis 
orders to many brokers. 

At four o’clock, Randolph and Erolt reported them- 
selves to the United States district attorney. The 
news of their arrest had already become known, and 
the authorities were widely applauded for their zeal in 
thus speedily arresting these two confederates, for so 
the world united in designating them. As they de- 


122 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


scended the steps of the bank, and entered.the carriage 
which was waiting for them, the crowd hooted and 
hissed at them, and they heard epithets hurled at them 
that made them grow red with indignation. 

The district attorney received them promptly, and 
Randolph, taking him aside, briefly informed him of 
the death of Erolt’s mother. 

“ I would not intrude upon your gyfief, nor interfere 
with your last offices of respect to the dead, Mr. 
Erolt, and, therefore, I shall continue your parole/’ 
the district attorney said ; “ but popular clamor is very 
great and no public official dare, in these degenerate 
days, entirely ignore it. Therefore, I shall ask you to 
report to me on Monday at five o’clock ; and I may say 
here to you now, that as at that time you will 
probably be for a few days restrained of your liberty, 
it would be well if you came here provided with the 
articles necessary for your comfort.” 

“ May I ask of what we are accused ?” Erolt 
said. 

The district attorney looked somewhat surprised as 
he answered : “ Of conspiracy to defraud the govern- 
ment by circulating counterfeits. You evidently have 
not yet seen your counsel ?” 

“No,” Erolt replied ; “ I have had so much to think 
of, that I had forgotten that. ” 

“You need not wait for me, Erolt,” Randolph said, 
“ there are a few words which I wish yet to say to the 
district attorney.” 

When Erolt had gone, Randolph turned to the dis- 
trict attorney and said: 

“ If I mistake not, your intention was to send us to 
jail to-night ?” 

“You are right,” the district attorney answered. 

“And that you refrained from incarcerating Mr. 
Erolt because of his mother’s death, and me because 
Mr. Erolt was yet under parole.” 

“ Yes, such were my reasons.” 

“ I suppose, also, that you anticipate abuse from the 
press because we are not locked up ?” 

“ I confess that I expect to see harsh things said 
about me in to-morrow’s papers.” 

“ Then/’ said Randolph, “ let me go to jail. That 


IN JAIL. 


123 


will placate the newspaper men; for though the press 
is vile, it has hardly fallen so low as to blame you for 
allowing Erolt to attend his mother’s funeral.” 

“It is very generous in you, Mr. Randolph,” the 
district attorney said, after a few minutes’ thought, 
“ but it will not be fair to you.” 

“ Perhaps more fair than you imagine,” Randolph 
answered. “ I told you yesterday that Foerster, the 
cashier, had enticed my wife away from me. The flat 
where 1 live is full of reminders of her, so that I should 
not go there, but to a hotel. 1 must perforce be quiet, 
for m3 7 feet are still very sore. I presume that I can 
have such books and things as I want brought to the 
jail. Let me be sent there, then.” 

“ Your decision will relieve me of much anxiety,” 
the district attorney said ; “in jail you will find all 
the comforts of a hotel.” 

He sat down at his desk and wrote a few lines which 
he handed to him, remarking : “ Here is a note to the 
warden, he will grant 3m u all the favors that he pro- 
perty can. You will please deliver it to him on 3mm* 
arrival. I should not do this,” he added, “if I did not 
believe that 3 7 ou and Mr. Erolt were the unfortunate 
victims of circumstances.” 

“As it is I thank you,” Randolph said as he took 
his leave. 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN JAIL. 

Arthur Erolt, when he left the district attorcmy’s 
office, did not go home at once, but telegraphed to the 
servants that he would not be back until late. He 
and his guardian dined together quietty at a restau- 
rant, and then he took a cab and called personalty on 
those of his father’s and. mother’s friends whom he 
wished to act as pall- bearers at her funeral. 

He felt that, under the circumstances, it would not 
do to write his wishes, but that a personal interview 
with these gentlemen was necessary. 


124 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


The task was painful, but in a few hours it was over 
and he turned his footsteps homeward. 

The undertaker had performed his duties, and some 
of his mother’s relatives had already arrived when he 
reached home. The small house was filled, and no 
room had been left for the deputy marshal. Arthur 
was in a quandary. He did not wish to sleep at a hotel* 
and yet it seemed as if he would be forced either to do 
so, or else to turn some of his relatives out of the 
house. The latter he could not do. Everything- con- 
nected or associated with his mother was sacred to him 
now ; and even for the members of her family, remote 
as their relations to her and to him had been, he felt a 
new affection. The true heart is never so stunned nor 
bruised with misfortune but that in its anguish it 
turns for sympathy to those through whose veins beats 
the same ancestral blood. 

In this dilemma Mulvaney came to the rescue by of- 
fering to sleep upon a mattress in the small dress- 
ing room adjoining- Arthur’s bed-chamber. Arthur 
gladly assented to this arrangement, and at length 
retired to his bed, wearied in body and mind and 
soul. 

Those who have suffered the loss of some dear rela- 
tive know how great the longing is to get away from 
all humanity, and to be alone with their grief. Yet in 
most cases this is impossible. The dead rest quietly, 
but those they leave behind must busy themselves 
with the cares which the customs of the world have 
put upon them. The paraphernalia with which the 
world surrounds the burial of those we love, the last 
> sad tokens of respect which we can pay to the depart- 
: ed, forbid us to seek that solitude for which we yearn, 
and force us into contact with other men. Not only 
are there many details as to the funeral ceremonies to 
which we must attend, but our home is usually crowded 
with relatives, and the cares of the household are 
greater than ordinary. 

Yet time never stops. The hours, no matter how 
long they seem, pass by; and day is followed by night, 
and night by day again. 

Thus Sundey passed and Monday dawned. The 
funeral was at ten o’clock and the Church’s rites over 


IN JAIL. 125 

the dead were completed before the sun had begun his 
course downward from the zenith of the heavens. 

In the midst of Arthur Erolt’s griefs, worldly cares 
intruded. He knew not how long it would be before he 
could return home, and was it) doubt what arrange- 
ment to make about the house. The furniture he knew 
had been his mother’s ; and the proceeds of its sale 
would suffice to pay the funeral expenses, the servants, 
and the few outstanding bills. But all the rest of her 
little fortune had been swept away in the ruin of the 
bank. True, the stockholders would be forced to make 
good part of the deficiency, but all of his own savings 
had been invested in the stock of the bank, and what- 
ever remnants of his inheritance came to him would be 
used to liquidate his own indebtedness as a stock- 
holder. 

Penniless, destitute, sick at heart, and resting under 
the shadow of criminal accusation, he was thrown sud- 
denly upon the world. One only consolation remained 
— he was not friendless ; and this one thought was the 
star of hope which shone through the clouds which 
encompassed him. 

Alas ! he knew not mankind. He knew not that 
friendship flees aghast when wealth flies away. He 
knew not that poverty was the one unpardonable sin— 
the only crime which the world never condones nor for- 
gives. 

He left the servants to keep the house open for the 
rest of the month, bidding them seek situations during 
that time, and packing his valise he returned to the 
United States district attorney’s office. The papers 
had told him that Randolph had gone to jail, and he 
knew that he must go there too. 

But it was from the district attorney himself that 
Arthur first learned of Randolph’s nobie conduct. 

“ It was great of him to go, that you might not be 
blamed for your courtesy to me,” he cried, as the dis- 
trict attorney told him what Randolph had said. 

4 * That was true friendship to allow no harm to come 
to you because of your kindness to a friend.” 

« “It was as noble as it was unusual,” the district 
attorney answered, for like all politicians he dreaded 
the abuse of the press. 


126 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ I suppose I must go to jail also ?” Erolt inquired. 

“ I am sorry that the law requires that you must.” 

“ Have you any idea how long we shall be confined 
there ?” 

“ I have not. Probably towards the end of this 
week you will have a preliminary hearing before the 
Judge. If within that time we have succeeded in ob- 
taining evidence exonerating you, you will be dis- 
charged. If we have not, you will be remanded, or 
possibly released on bail. The latter will depend upon 
the judge, for under all circumstances I shall not op- 
pose it.” 

“ And when do you suppose that our trial will come 
off, for I suppose our trial will be the next step ?” 

“ I cannot say. All depends now upon the detectives. 
I believe that if they catch the cashier, he will confess 
and you will be exonerated. But all is yet very un- 
certain.” 

“ I might as well then delay no further, but go now 
I suppose, to Ludlow street jail where Mr. Randolph is?” 

“ Yes ; the deputy will accompanj^ you there. I 
trust that your stay will be subject to as few annoy- 
ances as possible.” 

The district attorney sat in his chair for a few 
minutes after Erolt departed, thinking deeply. “ I 
wish I knew,” he thought, “ whether those two were 
really guilty. If they are not, it is hard that they 
should be imprisoned. If they are, they must have 
made a good haul, and rich men make dangerous ene- 
mies. If I were sure that we could convict them, I 
should not care so much. But to try them upon the 
slight evidence, which I fear is all that we can get, 
would result in their acquittal and then — with their 
money — I should have to hand in my resignation.” 
And the district attorney sighed as he thought of the 
jnany years’ earnings which he had spent before he 
gained his present office. 

As The iron doors of the prison clanged behind him, 
Arthur Erolt felt a strange fear creep over him. A 
sudden sense of his loss of personal liberty came home 
to him. He was a prisoner, caged within stone walls. 
It was a curious feeling, and he was surprised to find 
that he had it. As he stood for a few minutes in the 


IN JAIL. 


127 


waiting* room, he tried to reason it away, but still it 
remained. He could not realize that it was real, it 
seemed like a nightmare of a dream. 

He was glad when the attendant came to show him 
to his room and point out the boundaries of the space 
where he could go. As they walked along, the man 
told him the simple rules of the place. He found him- 
self treated by the turnkey as a distinguished guest 
and his heart sank within him at the thought that this 
man believed him guilty of a tremendous crime. 

Randolph met him in his room. 

“ Well, Erolt,” he said, as he shook hands with him, 
“ I cannot say that I am glad to see you and yet, as it 
was inevitable that you should come, perhaps I might.” 

“But I can say it to you,” Erolt answered, “ for 
the district attorney told me how nobly you had re- 
quested to be sent here.” 

‘‘Pooh!” Randolph rejoined. “There was but 
little hardship to me in that. This place is fully as 
comfortable as the hotel, though one cannot go out 
and walk the streets, which I by no means wish to do, 
with my feet in their present condition.” 

“ How are your feet ?” 

“ They are slowly getting* better, I think.” 

“ This is a comfortable room,” Erolt remarked as 
he looked about him. 

“ I picked it out for you. Of course I knew that 
you- would have to come here to-day. I have also 
made all other arrangements for our comfort.” 

“ Where is your room ?” 

“ Only two rooms away, on this same corridor. Let 
me tell you the arrangements I have made. We will 
have a separate table and dine away from the other 
prisoners. If j t ou wish to go out for a few hours, you 
can do so, provided you go quietly and take an atten- 
dant with you. You will have to pay him, of course.” 

“ But Randolph,” Erolt objected, “all these things 
cost money, and I am a very poor man now.” 

“But I am not,” Randolph answered. “ I have 
saved a few thousand dollars from my salary, and as 
I intend that the directors shall return me every dol- 
lar that our imprisonment costs us, I have no hesita- 
tion in being comfortable”’ 


128 


THE UNPARDONABLE SlN. 


“ But, will the directors do that ?” 

“ Spoontetter will make them. It will only be a 
few dollars a piece. They wouldn’t spend that for us; 
they’ll spend more than that if Spoontetter asks 
them.” 

“ Why wouldn’t they spend it for us as well as for 
him ?” 

“ Because we’re poorer than they, and he’s richer,” 
Randolph replied, lightly. 

“ You have seen Mr. Spoontetter ?” 

“ No, but he sent me a few lines telling’ me to call 
on him if we want anything.” 

“ That was very good in him.” 

“ Yes, it was. But I don’t believe that any of the 
directors know how much — or rather, how little — we 
know; and I guess they’ll treat us right until they 
find out.” 

“ But will not our living at this expense look as if 
we had profited by the bank’s failure ?” 

“ I thought of that ; but then I reasoned that if the 
directors pay our bills, that evidence of their belief in 
our honesty will benefit us.” 

“ Still it seems to me hardly right.” 

“Well, you and I know that we are innocent. We 
know that our imprisonment is unjust. Why, then, 
should we, of our own accord, make it harder by vol- 
untarily mixing with the common herd ?” 

“ Have you sent for a lawyer yet ?” 

“ No, I thought I would wait until you came.” 

“ Well, let us send to-morrow. What were the 
names of those lawyers the district attorney men- 
tioned ?” 

“ Hume, Howell and Metzstein. Shall we send for 
them ?” 

“ Unless you know others. Of course we know 
them by reputation.” 

“ No, I know no others. But I don’t intend to make 
myself responsible for a big lawyer’s bill.” 

“What shall we do then ?” 

“ Make the bank pa,y them. I suggest that we send 
for Mr. Jenkins first, and get him to send the lawyers 
to us. If I understand the case rightly, it amounts to 
just this : If the bank got good bills from the At- 


IN JAIL. 


120 


lantic and Southern, The Great West and the Mining 
Company, then it will have to pay the coupons, or in 
other words, pay them in good money by redeeming 
the counterfeits. But if it can prove that the coun- 
terfeits came from those corporations, then it won't 
lose anything, because it can force the companies t*o 
make the deposit over again in good money. So you 
see it is very much to the bank’s interest to insist on 
our innocence.” 

“You seem to have thought the whole matter 
over very carefully.” 

“ I had nothing else to do,” Randolph replied, with 
something that sounded like a sigh. “ I had to think 
of something, and if I did not think of business, my 
thoughts were running on my foot or on Lillian, both 
disagreeable subjects now. So I thought over our 
situation to keep the 4 blue devils’ away.” 

“You seem to have thought to good purpose.” 

“ I hope so. Don’t you agree with me ?” 

“ I do — entirely.” 

“ Well, to-morrow we shall see what Mr. Jenkins 
thinks of them ; for if they do not occur to him volun- 
tarily, I intend to urge them upon him.” 

A note to Mr. Jenkins was written and despatched 
that night, and before they retired to their beds the 
messenger returned with an answer that Mr. Jenkins 
would stop to see them on his way down town to- 
morrow morning. 

“ That will be about nine, I suppose,” Erolt said. 

Nearer ten or eleven,” Randolph answered. “You 
never yet saw a city lawyer who got up early.” 

Randolph was right. It was nearly half-past ten 
when Mr. Jenkins came. 

“We did not wish to take any steps, Mr. Jenkins,” 
Randolph said to that gentleman, after the ordinary 
greetings had passed, “ we did not wish to take any 
steps until we had first seen you.” 

“ You were very right,” Mr. Jenkins answered. 

Then Randolph* told him of his conversation with 
the di strict attorney, including his recommendation of 
Hume, Howell and Metzstein. 

“They are good lawyers,” Mr. Jenkins said, “I 
should be happy to be associated with them.” 


130 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ That’s what I thought,” Randolph replied, and he 
proceeded to state his reasons why the bank should 
undertake their defense. 

Hum ! ha!” Mr. Jenkins ejaculated, doubtfully. 
“ I had not exactly looked at it in that light. Still, 
there is much in what you say. I will think it over 
and let you know later in the day. You seem to have 
very comfortable quarters here, ” he added, as he rose 
to take his leave. 

“Yes,” Randolph answered quickly, “Mr. Spoon- 
tetter told me to make myself comfortable.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, “Mr. Spoontetter 
espouses your case, then.” 

“Why, of course!” Randolph replied innocently. 
“ Why, of course he does.” 

“Well! Well!” Mr. Jenkins said. “ I’ll bid you 
good-by and send a note to Hume, Howell and Metz- 
stein asking them to call and see you. And if there is 
anything else I can do, let me know.” 

“ The mean old sneak,” Randolph said as the* form 
of the receiver disappeared down the corridor. “ The 
mean old sneak. I have no doiibt that he thought us 
friendless, and would have sent us word to hire oup 
own lawyers, but now that he thinks Spoon tetter’s on 
our side he’ll be all right. You bet he won’t quarrel 
with the directors. ” 

“I can’t exactly say,” Erolt remarked, “ that I’m 
glad you’re in this scrape with me; but I confess that. 
I don’t know what I should have done if I had been 
alone.” 

Randolph laughed. “ One of your charms, Erolt,” 
he said, “ has always been a certain innocence which 
comes, perhaps, from your purity of heart, perhaps of 
your inexperience of the world. It may be all right to 
have it, but you have got to get rid of it before you 
can fight your way in the world successfully. ” 

“But there are other things in the world besides 
success.” 

“There is nothing that the world recognizes as wor- 
thy of fighting for, except worldly success.” 

“ On Friday morning,” Arthur said, “the world 
seemed very bright to me. Now life looks very dark 
to me. I seem to be the plaything of an adverse fate. 


WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD ? 


131 


How swiftly my troubles have fallen upon me ? Less 
than a week ago and my pathway in life seemed to be 
strewn with golden sands; now I am alone in the world, 
bereft of those nearest and dearest to me — fortune gone 
and my honor tarnished by the wild attacks made upon 
it — I tread the slough of despair. Life has lost all that 
makes it worth living. I almost wish that I could 
die.” 

“ Poor fellow,” Randolph said, “ fortune has indeed 
been hard on you. But remember that I, too, suffer 
with you, and that you have my sympathy.” 

“ They say that ‘ misery loves company/ ” Erolt 
answered, trying to smile, “yet I find no comfort in 
the thought of your wrnes.” 

“We shall suffer but a little while,” Randolph 
replied. “ A little while and we shall go forth from 
here unstained and free. Time will heal our wounds, 
and we * will yet live to laugh at our present woes. 
Cheer up, old fellow ! Remember that the mind may 
brood upon its injuries until it is crushed beneath its 
own imaginings.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD ? 

On Friday morning, July the 1st, the watchman on 
Pier 46, North River, was aroused from his slumbers 
by the sunrise gun fired from the United States 
steamer Minnesota , which was anchored in the stream 
opposite to the- pier. He opened his eyes, yawned, rose 
and stretched himself. 

There is an anecdote of the newly-arrived Irishman 
who, aroused by the report of the sunrise guns, 
exclaimed in fear, “ What’s that ?” “ Nothing,” said 

his sleepy bedfellow, “but the sun rising.” “Oh, 
heavens !” cried Pat, “does the sun always get up 
with a bang in this blessed country ?” 

Had the watchman known of his compatriot’s experi- 
ence it might have consoled him for the loss of the 


132 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


remainder of his nap. But as he did not, he walked 
forward to the pier-liead grumbling-. 

It was a calm, still morning. The surface of the 
river was smooth, and ruffled only by the rushing of 
the tide as it swept past the rotting spiles of the pier, 
or by the swell of a passing ferryboat. A slight fog 
hung over the water, making the rail against which he 
leaned damp and clammy to the touch. There was a 
slight chill in the air which the sunbeams would soon 
drive away. There were few sounds breaking the 
stillness of the early morning ; the gurgling of the tide 
as it eddied through the spiles, the beat of the paddles 
of the ferryboats, the chirping of the awakened spar- 
rows on the wharves — these were all he heard. He 
yawned again, stretched out his arms and beat his 
breast, then he turned to walk back to the street. 

As he turned his eye fell upon a pile of clothes lying 
on the wharf, and he kicked them with his foot. There 
was a coat, a straw hat, a vest and a pair of shoes. 
When he had pushed them apart he stooped down and 
lifted up the coat. As soon as his fingers clutched it 
he knew that it was no workingman’s coat. The tex- 
ture of the cloth assured him of that. The last linger- 
ing remnant of sleepiness left him. He muttered to 
himself : 

“ I thought they was some fellar’s who had stole 
down for a swim, but I'm blessed if it aint another of 
them suicides.” 

He ran his hand into the pockets. In one there was 
a handkerchief, in the other a lot of letters. He felt 
carefully about in hopes of finding a pocketbook or 
some loose change, but nothing of the sort rewarded 
his search, either in the coat or in the vest. But the 
latter had in ’one of its pockets a gold watch with a 
chain attached to it and passed through one of the but- 
tonholes. As he examined the watch attentively he 
saw that a name was engraved on the outer lid of the 
case, but what it was he could not decipher. 

He stood for a moment in doubt. The watch and 
chain were valuable, no doubt, and the temptation to 
keep them was great. But then he knew that there 
might be a risk in either keeping or disposing of it, for 
the owner might be inquired after — probably would, 


WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD ? 


133 


for he seemed to have been a rich man — and the pos- 
session of the watch might be traced to him and bring 
suspicion upon him. 

He stood there irresolute, weighing the watch in his 
hand, then, as if he had decided what to do, he thrust 
it into his capacious pocket, bent down, and gathering 
up the clothes, carried them to the other side of the 
pier and stowed them beneath a pile of boards. If his 
thoughts had been known they would probably have 
been something like this : “If they are inquired after, 
or if there is a reward offered for them, I will give 
them up, for then it would not be safe to keep them, 
but if neither of these events happen, then I will keep 
them, and thank the saints for my luck.” 

They were inquired after. On Monday noon, a 
stout, thick-set man, wearing a slouch hat and dressed 
in a dark blue flannel suit, sauntered on to the pier. 
He stopped and spoke a few words to the gang of 
stevedores upon the dock, and then .walked up to where 
the watchman sat eating his lunch. 

As he approached, the watchman intuitively knew 
that now the missing man was to be inquired after, 
and unconsciously his hand dropped into his pocket 
where the watch was. The stranger noticed the in- 
voluntary action, and came right to the point at once. 

“ I am looking,” he said, “ for a gentleman about 
thirty-three years old. with black hair and a full black 
beard, slight in form, who, when last seen, wore a dark 
cutaway of striped or diagonal cloth, gra3 T trousers, 
vest of the same cloth as the coat, a straw hat with a 
black ribbon, and low shoes. Somehow I think you 
can give me some information about him.” The 
stranger watched him keenly as he spoke. 

“ Shure how can I remimber any one person out of 
all the men that come upon the dock.” 

“You don’t often have gentlemen come here. Come! 
You know something about him. What is it ?” 

“ Who are ye, anyhow ?” asked the watchman, 
surlily. 

“No matter who I am,” responded the stranger. 

“ Well, ye’ll git nary a bit of information from me,” 
said the watchman; “if I know anything I’ll iell it 
to the perlice,” 


134 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Then yon may tell it to me, for I’m a detective,” 
replied the stranger, throwing open his coat and show- 
ing a silver badge pinned to his vest. 

The watchman drew the watch from his pocket and 
handed it to the detective, remarking, with a sigh of 
regret, as he parted with it : 

“ Then, perhaps, ye kin read what’s written on it.” 

The detective took the watch and examined it 
closely. The inscription was partly effaced — seemingly 
worn down from long use, but he could decipher the 
words : 

“ John Foerster, 

New York.” 

“ Yes,” he said, “ that’s the man I want. Where 
is he ?” 

“ At the bottom of the river, I guess,” the watch- 
man replied, who, now that he had parted with the 
watch, was eager to tell how he came by it, “ at the 
bottom of the river, I guess. I found that in some 
clothes on the dock, and I was a- waiting ter give it ter 
the perlice. Stop a minute, an’ I’ll bring ye the 
clothes.” 

So saying, the watchman left his seat, and going to 
the boxes at the pier head, unearthed the clothes and 
brought them back with him. 

“ Yer see,” he said, “last Friday mornin’ I was a 
goin’ over the pier to see that all was right, when I 
saw these clothes with the watch in them, and thinkin’ 
that the perlice would be a- wantin’ them by an’ by, I 
put the w^atch inter my pocket fur safe kapin’ and hid 
the clothes where they’d be handy to get at when they 
were wanted.” 

“ And if I’d not come here asking about them, of 
course you’d given them to the police,” the detective 
said sarcastically. “ You’ll have to come with me and 
tell your story at headquarters, my man.” 

“ Shure it’s not arrestin’ me ye be when I’ve tould 
ye the whole truth about it ?” 

“ Come along. You know there’s no use making a 
fuss,” was the only answer which the detective vouch- 
safed. 

With many ejaculations of wonderment and disgust 


WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD 0 135 

the watchman accompanied the detective to police 
headquarters, and there he was questioned as to all 
the details — which, as the reader already knows them, 
need not be repeated here. When his examination was 
finished, he was sent, despite his remonstrances, to 
the House of Detention, to be detained as a witness. 

The clothes were undoubtedly those of John Eoers- 
ter. The tailor who had made them, and whose name 
was on them, identified them as having' been made for 
that man. The handkerchief bore his name; the 
papers in the pocket of the coat were either memo- 
randa in his hand writing or letters addressed to him ; 
the watch bore his name; the hat had his initials 
marked on the lining. 

“ Well, what do you think?” the Chief said to the 
detective after the examination, “ is it a case of suicide, 
or foul play, or murder?” 

“ Devil a bit !” the detective replied. “ It’s a blind ; 
only a blind. Either he himself, or some pal of his, 
put them there as a blind to lead us off the scent. 
He’s off somewhere enjoying his mone3 r .” 

“Probably in Canada,” the chief said. “That’s 
where most of the cashiers go nowadays. Who put 
them there, do you suppose ?” 

“ Some pal of his, I guess. He skipped town pretty 
soon after he left the bank, T imagine. Perhaps one of 
them two fellers in Ludlow street. I must find out 
where they were Thursday night.” 

“Well, wait till 1 see the district attorney; he’s 
thick with them, and when he finds what they say, we 
can verify their statements. I guess, if you have noth- 
ing else to do, you might go up to his office now and 
tell him about it.” 

When the detective had told his story to the district 
attorney, he requested that official to ask Randolph 
and Erolt where they had been on Thursday night. 

“ Go up and ask them yourself,” that gentleman 
had replied. “I have no doubt they will tell you.” 

“That’s not a bad idea,” the detective said. “I 
want to take a good look at those fellows anyhow, in 
case I should want to know them again by and by.” 

Randolph and Erolt had hardly finished the substan- 
tial lunch which the guardians of the jail had provided 


±36 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


for them, when the card of the honorable Benjamin 
Hume was presented to them, followed in a few min- 
utes by the portly form of that gentleman himself. 
Both prisoners looked at him curiously as he entered. 
They had heard much about him for years past, for he 
was the leader of the criminal bar in the city of New 
York, but they had never seen him before. They saw 
a tall, stout, well-dressed gentleman with a smoothly 
shaved face, and a breadth of shoulder and capacity of 
chest which many a man envied. He greeted them 
politely, and was particular in inquiring which was 
Mr. Erolt and which was Mr. Randolph. 

“I knew your father,” he said to the former, “he 
gave me much good advice, which, had I followed, I 
should be a better man to-day.” 

“I never heard that you were a bad man,” said 
Erolt, smiling. 

“You never met the right people then/’ Mr. Hume 
responded, cheerily. “ Every man has enemies, and I 
am no exception to the rule.” 

“I should think you to be a bad man to tackle, 
though,” Randolph remarked; at which they all 
laughed. 

“Have you lunched?” Erolt inquired; “we had 
scarcely finished when you arrived.” 

“To tell you the truth, I have not,” Mr. Hume 
answered. 

As they sat at table Erolt noticed that the massive 
face was seared with lines of care and thought. 
“Scars of many battles,” Erolt said to himself; and 
so they were. Few lawyers in New York knew as 
much criminal law as Benjamin Hume — unless indeed 
we except his partners, Howell and Metzstein. 

While luncheon was still in progress, Randolph 
attempted to tell about their case, but. Mr. Hume 
stopped him. 

“ Not while we’re lunching, if you please,” he said, 
“wait till we have finished.” 

And indeed the two men were not sorry that it was 
so, for the great advocate had a fund of anecdote, and 
a quaint, keen wit that made them laugh in spite of 
themselves. Laughter stirs the blood, purifies the air 
in the lungs, and makes a man feel better and stronger. 


WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD ? 


137 


But after luncheon was over, and they all sat around 
the table smoking- their cigars, then Mr. Hume listened 
patiently to all they had to say. When they had fin- 
ished, he asked them questions until the whole matter 
had been gone over again, and all the facts and circum- 
stances had been firmly fixed in his brain. 

What a brain that was ! How many curious facts, 
how many romances, how many tragedies it had held 
in the meshes of its fibres. It is said that what we 
once know we never forget, but that our knowledge 
still stays in some corner of the brain, forgotten, per- 
haps, but still there, until the time arrives for it to 
come forth from its hiding-place. If Benjamin Hume’s 
brain could have unfolded all that it knew, what stories 
it could have told. 

When the lawyer had heard all that he wished to 
know, he said emphatically : 

“ There is no just cause for your detention here. I 
shall see the United States district attorney, and if he 
does not consent to your discharge, we will apply to 
the court. We will have you out in a day or two.” 

As he spoke, he rose, as if to depart, but at that 
moment an attendant entered with a slip of paper on 
which was written a name. Randolph read it. 

“ I don’t know the gentleman,” he said, “ ask him 
to send up his business.” 

“ He is a detective, sir,” the attendant said. 

Randolph and Erolt looked at the lawyer as if to ask 
his advice. 

“Let him come up,” he said ; “with your permis- 
sion, gentlemen, I will prolong my stay.” 

Both men gladly assented. 

As the detective entered, Mr. Hume shook him by 
the hand, exclaiming: 

“ Ha, Read ! Is that you ? Have you come to see 
my clients? Let me make you acquainted — Mr. Ran- 
dolph — Mr. Erolt.” 

“ I did not know you were in the case, Mr. Hume,” 
the detective said. 

“ Oh, yes !” the lawyer answered, “and these gen- 
tlemen won’t stay here long, I promise you. Have 
you come to give them information, or to get informa- 
tion from them?’* 


138 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“Both,” the detective replied, and he told them how 
Foerster’s clothes and watch had been found. 

“ Poor fellow, then he’s dead !” Randolph exclaimed. 

Mr. Hume seemed to be much amused at this idea, 
and could not check a laugh, in which the detective 
joined. Randolph looked astonished. 

“ I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” he remarked. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Randolph,” said Mr. Hume, “but 
the clothes were left to mislead us, that is all. A 
cashier who gets away with a million dollars does not 
drown himself within forty-eight hours afterwards. 
He may, after it is all spent, but not before. Am 1 
not right, Read ?” 

“ I agree with you entirety,” the detective replied. 
“ I want to ask these gentlemen if they can help me 
guess who left those things there ?” 

“In other words,” Mr. Hume said, “you wish to 
know where these gentlemen were on Thursday night. 
Where were you, Mr. Erolt?” 

“ At borne,” Erolt answered. 

“What witnesses have you to that?” Mr. Hume 
again inquired. 

“ All the servants.” 

“ Anyone else ?” 

“ Yes, Miss Sprague, the young lady to whom I am 
engaged, but 1 trust her name will not be mixed up in 
the case.” 

“ And where were you, Mr. Randolph ?” 

“ At home.” 

“What witnesses have you f’ 

“The servant in the house, and the doctor who 
attended me. I was ill — my feet troubled me.” 

“ And the doctor’s name — ?” 

“ Was Brown. He lives, I think, 119 West 34tli 
street. 5 ’ 

“ I think we have proved an alibi, Mr. Read,” Mr. 
Hume remarked, jocosely. 

“I think so,” the detective replied, respectfully. 
“ Now, gentlemen, can either of you give me any addi- 
tional information ?” 

Ra ndolph and Erolt volunteered such information as 
they could think of on the spur of the moment, but the 
detective did not seem to think it of much value. 
However, he made a note of it, and after a little desul- 


WILL THE SEA GIVE UP ITS DEAD ? 139 

tory conversation, both he and Mr. Hume took their 
departure together. 

“ I have not seen the papers yet,” Mr. Hume said, 
as they passed out into the street, “ but I suppose 
that those two ” — and he nodded his head in the direc- 
tion of the jail, ‘ £ are arrested on the charge of con- 
spiracy ?” 

“ I believe that’s it,” the detective answered, “%nd 
I don’t mind telling you that there is precious little 
evidence against them.” 

“ Oh, they are innocent, I feel convinced,” Mr. 
Hume responded “I don’t suppose that there is 
much chance of capturing the cashier ?” 

“Not much, unless he spends money freely, and 
thus makes himself a marked man.” 

Mr. Hume stopped in the street and faced the detec- 
tive. “Find out,” he said, impressively, “find out 
who printed those counterfeits, and trace your man 
from him. Now, mark my words; he was the only 
accomplice that the cashier had, and those counter- 
feits were gotten up for this especial swindle.” 

“I believe you're right,” the detective said, “but 
one’s about as hard as the other.” 


“Well, Randolph,” Erolt said, as their visitors 
departed, “what do 'you think of the great Mr. 
Hume ?” 

“ A man whose very presence inspires confidence,” 
Randolph replied. “ I believe we are fortunate in inter- 
esting him in our case.” 

“ Have you ever seen his partners ?” 

“No; have you ?” 

“No, but I believe that they are very different in 
personal appearance from him.” 

“ So I have been told ; but they stand very high in 
their profession, I believe.”^ 

“ So I am told.” 

“Did you notice the diamond on his little finger.” 

“ I should think I did.” 

Randolph had always been a drinking man, but now 
Erolt noticed, to his great regret, that he drank more 
and more deeply. And Erolt was right in his regrets, 
for from this time forward Randolph was frequently 
intoxicated. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

STRUGGLES AND TRIBULATIONS. 

Toward the close of the week the judge of the United 
States court gave Randolph and Erolt a preliminary 
hearing. That is, he ordered them to he brought be- 
fore him and inquired of the district attorney why 
they were restrained of their liberty. Then all the 
evidence which the government had collected was laid 
before him, and such evidence as the two prisoners 
had was likewise submitted to him. The sole evidence 
of the former was the fa$fc that the bank — through 
Erolt as paying teller and Randolph as cashier — had 
paid out these counterfeits. 

To pass counterfeit money not knowing that it is 
counterfeit is no crime. But this question of intent is 
the most difficult one to prove and the law says that 
if you and I, gentle reader, should be found with 
counterfeit money in our possession, 'We must tell hew 
we came by it and clear ourselves as best we may of 
the suspicion that we knew it was bad. 

Had this been a case involving only a few bills, 
Randolph’s and Erolt’s own oaths would have cleared 
them, but the amount was so large and the swindle 
was so extraordinary, that it seemed almost impos- 
sible that there had not been more than one person 
— the cashier — concerned in it. It seemed, too, most 
extraordinary that a paying-teller of a bank should 
have allowed so large a number of bills to pass through 
his hands without detecting that they were counter- 
feits, and the nference seemed unavoidable that he was 
purposely blind or intentional] y culpable. Therefore, 
the judge declared that In? would require other evi- 
dence than the oaths of the criminals themselves, be- 
fore he discharged them. 

A preliminary examination is not a trial of a case. 
It is an informal examination held before a magistrate 
to determine whether the accused shall be held a 
prisoner, or released on bail until such time as his trial 
takes place, or whether he shall be discharged, alto- 
gether, from custody. The trial stakes place long 


Struggles and tribulations. 141 

afterwards ; and in cases like that of which we are now 
speaking* it is customary to keep the prisoners in jail 
or on hail until the detectives have been given time to 
accumulate evidence against them. 

Such is a very general statement of the law and 
practice in such cases, and is a brief summary of what 
Mr. Hume told Randolph and Erolt when he informed 
them that their preliminary examination would take 
place that week. He had appealed to the district at- 
torney to order their discharge, but that official had 
declined to accede ho his request — not wishing to take 
the responsibility of such a step, nor to subject him- 
self to the abuse which the newspapers would heap 
upon him for so doing. 

The magistrate, when he had heard the evidence on 
both sides, and listened to the lawyer’s arguments on 
the points of law involved, decided not to discharge 
the prisoners but to hold them for trial. “But,” he 
said, “I will take bail for them each in twenty-five 
thousand dollars.” 

The question of who should be their bail, then arose. 
Randolph called on Silas Spoontetter. He could not 
be bail because he resided out of the State and in Hew 
Jersey, but he induced his friends who were residents 
of New York to go upon the bond. 

Erolt’s circumstances were different. None of the 
directors were persona^friends of his, as they were of 
Randolph’s, and he fe"un willing to place himself un- 
der this obligation to them except as a last resort. 
This was a favor which he preferred to ask one of his 
own personal friends, and who among them should be 
chosen ? His thoughts turned naturally to Somes 
Temple. Erolt knew that he owned a house in the city, 
worth perhaps a hundred thousand dollars, and other 
property worth, perhaps, as much again. Somes had 
been one of the first to seek him out in his trouble, the 
first to offer his sympathy and assistance, the first to 
visit him in jail. It was Somes whom he determined 
therefore to call to his aid, and he was sure that Somes 
would not refuse to respond favorably to his call. 

He was not disappointed. Somes was g*lad to aid 
him. and, not content with signing his bail-bond, 
offered to help him in many other ways. 


142 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Thank you, Somie,” Erolt said, to his friend’s offer 
of assistance. “ Thank you ! But I have still money 
enough to last me a little while. I have not yet de- 
cided what to turn my attention to. I must look about 
me for a while. But rest assured that I shall never 
forget your kindness.” 

“You will be different from the rest of the world, 
then,” ISomes responded with a smile. 

“ Ah ! I wish I was different from the woi;ld as you 
are,” Erolt said. 

“Am I, then, so different?” Somes inquired, 
curiously. 

“ You are a friend, Somes,” Erolt answered. “You 
are all that the word friend implies — all that it means 
— and there are very few true friends in the world.” 

“You are cynical,” Somes said. “I am not so very 
different from other men.” 

“When I was a small boy,” Erolt said in answer, 
“ my father taught me to declaim a poem. I don’t 
know who wrote it, but it runs thus : 

“ * Horatio’s servant, once, with bow and cringe, 
Swinging the parlor door upon its hinge, 

Dreading a negative, and overawed, 

Begged of his master leave to go abroad. 

‘Go, fellow? whither?’ turning short about, 

‘ No ! Stay at home. You’re always going out.’ 

‘’Tis but a step, sir, just at the street’s end.’ 

‘ For what?’ ‘ So please you, jter, tc see a friend.’ 

‘ A friend ! ’ Horatio cried am? seemed to start ; 

‘Aye, marry, shalt thou ! And with all my heart ! 

‘ And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw, 

‘ Til see him too — the first I ever saw.’ ” 

“ Ah, if you quote poetry to convince me, I give up 
the discussion,” Somes said. 

When the bail-bond had been signed and Erolt dis- 
charged from custody, he felt a strange sense of ela- 
tion — a curious realization of the blessings of liberty. 
Who has not been kept in the house by illness ? Who 
does not remember the delight with which he breathed 
the fresh air and saw the earth blossoming and bloom- 
ing before him upon his first release from the sick- 
room ? The sensation which Erolt felt was akin to 
this, but it was stronger and deeper, for his bodily and 
mental energies had not been weakened by sickness 


STRUGGLES AND TRIBULATIONS. 


143 


nor disease. The few days of his imprisonment seemed 
to him to have been weeks as he looked back at them. 
The familiar objects that met his eyes on his way 
down town, he greeted as if he had just returned from 
a long absence. 

There are crises in men’s lives which change their 
natures as the lapse of quiet, uneventful years could 
never change them. Crises which endure, perhaps, but 
for minutes, hours or days, crises which the soul does 
not measure by the flight of time; yet at their end, 
lo, the change is wrought. Men intuitively recognize 
these changes and look abroad with a strange sense of 
unfamiliarity with their surroundings, unconscious 
that the change is not in the world but in them- 
selves. 

It is hard to formulate into words the convulsion of 
Erolt’s nature. When the human mind reflects upon 
the terrors and perplexities of its destiny, it becomes 
for a space a convert to the supremacy of Fate. Man 
seems to be surrounded by forces which are more 
powerful than his will. Circumstances seem stronger 
than men. The sure, silent step of Fate seems to be 
irresistible. It is impossible to overestimate the effect 
of his misfortune upon Erolt’s nature, intellectual 
and emotional. He had been thoroughly imbued by 
heritage and by education with a high ideal of man- 
hood and womanhood. But his ideal world had been 
ruthlessly invaded. His faith had been shattered by 
unclean and iconoclastic hands. A wave of shame 
and wounded sensibility had swept over him in a 
mighty emotional current, souring his views of life, 
deadening his ambition, paralyzing his energies, and 
disqualifying him for action. The very refinement of 
his nature intensified his suffering. A stronger man, 
of coarser fibre, would have felt less poignantly, and 
would have bowed his head silently until the storm 
passed over. Erolt was still a young man and yet 
susceptible to those impressions which, until age has 
fully molded and formed character, exercise such 
a powerful influence upon the nature of man; for 
the most noble-spirited and generous soul may be 
warped by the tremendous pressure of adverse circum- 
stances. The world seemed to him an arena of tor- 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


144 

merited and polluted being's, eaclmievouring the other, 
a seething cauldron of pollution, intrigue and deceit. 
Shattered faith, ruined hopes, wrought a deep psy- 
chological change. The surging, heart-breaking 
agony caused by his mother’s death, merged with the 
disappointed horror of an outraged manhood, had 
bred a weariness and distaste of life. The mental 
convulsion which the foul accusation of fraud caused 
we can but dimty imagine, but its full effect, which 
Erolt could not foresee nor realize, may be partially 
shown by the succeeding incidents of his life. 

First of all he turned his attention to settling the 
affairs of his mother’s estate. The furniture of the 
house was advertised to be sold, with the exception of 
only a few things which were so intimately associated 
with his parents that he could not bear to sell them. 
These he carefully packed and stored; all else was sent 
away and sold. With the proceeds of this sale, he 
paid the servants and the outstanding bills. The lease 
of the house was surrendered and he himself sought 
for lodgings more suitable to his reduced fortune. 

But as if he had not suffered enough, another great 
trouble overshadowed him. A great fear took posses- 
sion of him and chilled his heart with a vague dread. 
He thought he saw a change in Sarah Sprague — a 
change small as the tiny cloud in the sky, which, 
though it be not larger than a man’s hand, is yet the 
harbinger of the storm. Could it be that she had 
ceased to love him as much as in the old times ? Could 
it be that his misfortunes had opened a breach be- 
tween them ? Sometimes he thought that it was so; 
at other times he laughed at his doubts as the vain im- 
aginings of an over-fearing mind. Their marriage, 
of course, had been postponed, but he knew that now, 
under his altered fortunes, that was inevitable. But as 
the days went by his fears were not allayed. Her let- 
ters to him from the country seemed to grow less 
warm, to become more mechanical and less from the 
heart. As the weeks passed, they became less frequent. 
The summer before, Sarah had written almost every 
day; now, one letter a week was all lie could hope for, 
and, sometimes, the seven da vs went hv without his 
receiving even that, 


STRUGGLES AND TRIBULATIONS. 


145 


He was perplexed with doubt. At one time his 
pride urged him to rebel against such neglect— to speak 
his doubts and have them confirmed or swept away — 
yet love held him silent. At other times, pride bade 
him be the first to break the bond which, perhaps, had 
become irksome to her, and again love refused to be 
thus sacrificed. 

But at last his doubts were solved. She sent him 
back the ring which he had given her, with a letter in 
which she said that now that there was no chance of 
their being married for long years to come, it was best 
that their engagement should be broken off, at least 
until happier times should, perhaps, permit them to 
renew it. She wrote thus, she further said, tQ spare 
them both the pain of a personal explanation, and he 
might rest assured that her friendship would ever be 
his. 

When Arthur received this letter, he felt that now 
indeed his cup of misery was # overflowing. “Her 
friendship” — the words seemed like a mockery. Friend- 
ship can never grow out of a love that has been 
spurned. Love which has never been spoken in words, 
love which has been told only by fond glances, love 
which has been sternly bound and hidden in one’s heart 
— these loves may in time grow into a fair, true, beau- 
tiful friendship. But love that has been spurned away, 
if it be true, must die. False love may turn to hate, 
but true love dies, and leaves behind it only an unfilled 
void and a faint and sweet memory, as the perfume 
which clings to the faded flower. True love between 
man and woman is rare ; true friendship between man 
and woman is rarer yet; but the friendship which 
springs from the ashes' of true love when it dies, is the 
rarest of all. 

It has been said that the hearts of women are like 
the mountains that rise above the western plain — some 
find gold there ; some do not — much depends upon the 
seeker. Alas, for Arthur Erolt ! He thought lie had 
found gold, but it proved base metal; and had melted 
away before the crucial test of poverty. 

The letter had come directed to Erolt at the bank, 
and he had read it without giving sign I hat* his heart 
\yas breaking, except that a sudden pallor which none ’ 


146 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


noticed, spread over his face. But when late at night 
he stood upon the how of the ferry-boat, on his way 
back to his lodgings, and looked at the dark waters 
flowing swiftly and noiselessly beneath him, it seemed 
to him that it would be best for him to plunge into them 
and hide his woes beneath them. So strong was the 
impulse that he shuddered at it and stepped back lest 
it should prove too strong for him. For come what 
might, he would never be coward enough to flee from 
the battlefield of the world by a self-inflicted death. 

But all the same his wish to live was dead. Hence- 
forth life was a burden which he would have rejoiced 
if death had lifted from him. Wealth might come — 
he had, no doubt it would, for though poverty had 
killed love, it had not yet conquered hope — wealth 
might come, but it would bring in its train no joys for 
him. 

When he had given up his house he had taken lodg- 
ings in Brooklyn, so that he might be nearer to his 
lady-love, but now Brooklyn was hateful to him, and 
he moved to New York and took a comfortable room 
on Seventeenth street. 

He was still employed in the bank, assisting the re- 
ceiver to settle its affairs,, but his salary had been cut 
down until it barely sufficed to pay even his modest 
expense of living. There was nothing in that employ- 
ment to look forward to, and besides, he wished to 
make an entire change in his life, so he resigned his 
clerkship, hired desk room in an office, and started 
again as a real-estate broker. 

He went around among his former friends, advising 
them of his change of occupation, and soliciting their 
business. Some received him kindly and gave him or- 
ders; others were more curt, yet promised to remember 
him, when they had business; others seemed astonished 
that he should call upon them; some few, with meaner, 
smaller souls than the rest, pretended to have forgotten 
him. 

True kindness of heart is the foundation of all good 
manners. To those whom they love all are polite 
while they love them. True politeness is unselfish, or 
perhaps selfish in the very pleasure of unselfishness. 
Few men cared for Arthur Frolt now that he had lost 


STRUGGLES AND TRIBULATIONS. 


147 


the power or ability of being useful to them, and the 
foundation of their politeness being wanting they ap- 
peared in all their native vulgarity. Sociarusage soon 
veneers the veriest boor with a cloak of outwardly good 
manners, beneath which, the original, inborn rudeness 
lies hidden from the sight of those who would frown 
upon it. But let some one, whom society cares not for 
— some poor or unknown person — some one whose 
frowns count for nothing — come across the path of 
such a man, and the cloak he has worn is dropped, and 
his nature appears in its own repulsive guise. 

Arthur Erolt was natural^ a thoughtful man and 
he did not fail to notice and think about the manner of 
his former acquaintances. In politeness of salutation 
and methods of greeting there are shades of difference 

sensibilities, yet hardly de- 



Arthur Erolt went among 


his quondam friends, he became from day to day more 
aware of these differences. Old companions, who in 
former times would have stopped to shake him by the 
hand, now passed him with a nod, or failed to recognize 
him altogether. Men who had courted him while he 
was teller in the bank, now crossed the street when 
they saw him approaching, or studied the pavement 
as they passed by. His heart could not but be hurt 
by such slights, though his reason told him that such 
men were not worthy of the honor of thought — that 
they would be the first to claim his friendship if he be- 
came rich again. 

One m<fn alone remained the same warm true friend 
that he had been in days gone by, and that man was 
Somes Temple. There was no base metal in his na- 
ture. It was all pure gold. 

At rare intervals there is found in the world some 
one true man, who is endowed with a soul such as we 
may imagine man must have had before his fall. His 
station in life may be exalted or it may be lowly, but, 
wherever he goes he exhibits an example of the rarest, 
truest, noblest qualities of man — qualities God-given, 
not inherited, and such a man was Somes Temple. 
Ever since their college days, Arthur Erolt and Somes 
had been friends. The latter’s clear insight recogniz- 
ed that innocence of heart which was part of Erolt ’s 


148 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


nature, and his nobility of mind disregarded Erolt’s 
many minor weaknesses. Men with mean, contemptible 
little souls, hate those who are nobler and better than 
they; men with large souls love and reverence them. 

So Erolt, the more he saw of Somes, loved and rev- 
erenced him as one greater than other men. But 
how much greater Somes was, Erolt 'never realized, 
until he became poor and found that his poverty did 
not drive this friend away. 

Every man has temptations ; Erolt had his. Per- 
sons knowing that he was poor came to him with 
many a suggestion to make money in ways of doubt- 
ful honesty. Some of these were very tempting. 
They seemed sure ; the dishonesty was little, very lit- 
tle, less than many men, to whom the crowd bowed 
down in adulation, practised. Erolt know that if he 
should adopt these suggestions, he too, would in a lit- 
tle while be rich and courted. Yet, when the tempta- 
tion was the greatest, he would think of Somes’ purity 
and nobility of character ; and from the example of 
that would gain courage to resist. 

Great indeed is the man who, by the mere moral ex- 
ample of his life, can keep others from wrong-doing. 
Greater is he who adds to such a life a hand stretched 
out to help those who are in trouble ; and thanks to 
Somes’ wise words of counsel and encouragement, 
Erolt still kept a bold front to the world and sought 
by his energ3 T and attention, by his honesty and fideli- 
ty to business, to gain customers. Yet somehow he 
did not succeed. Men knew he was poor and shunned 
him on that account. They seemed afraid to trust 
him in money matters, forgetting that his poverty 
was due to his very honesty which they mistrusted. 

Erolt could not understand it. He had been educat- 
ed to think that honest poverty was a misfortune, 
perhaps, but no disgrace — no crime — no sin. 

He did not give up easily. He stuck bravely to his 
business as a real estate broker for a year ; then in 
disgust he saw that he could not succeed in that oc- 
cupation and retain his own self-respect and he looked 
about for something else to do. 

Not the least strange of his sensations was a curious 
sense of loneliness which came over him at times. 


Struggles and tribulations. 


140 


It arose suddenly, without warning* and, seemingly, 
without cause. It filled his mind with a strange sur- 
prise that he, who in olden days had had such hosts of 
friends, should now he alone. It was not the desola- 
tion nor oppression of solitude which he felt, for his 
bruised spirit found balm in his isolation ; it was rather 
amazement and wonder at the existence of such a state 
of affairs. He had had, in olden times, such hosts of 
friends and acquaintances — both those whom his fa- 
ther’s clerical positions had entailed and those whom 
his own pleasant character had drawn about him— that 
their absence now seemed strange and inexplicable. 

This sensation came to him at different times. Fre- 
quently he would walk block after block along the 
familiar streets and then, apparently without reason, 
wake to the realization that he was alone. . Such 
thoughts would come to him as he was in the middle 
of his solitary dinner and sometimes even when he was 
ciphering over a business problem or engaged in the 
engrossing occupation of literary composition. 

In fact Arthur Erolt had been in his prosperous 
days a man of unusually attractive personality — a 
man with a bright and well-informed mind, with a 
pure and generous heart, with a good digestion and a 
merry wit. All these had tended to make him an 
agreeable companion. There was a gentleness in his 
nature which, while it unfitted him for the rude buf- 
fetting of adverse fortune, added a charm to his hours 
of ease. But when trouble overtook him it worked a 
change. Much of his light-heartedness had of neces- 
ity departed, and this alone might have partly ac- 
counted for his forsaken condition : another cause 
might have been the natural desire of a wounded spir- 
it to hide away in solitude ; and if an additional reason 
were wanting, undoubtedly it might be found in the 
fact that many of his quondam friends avoided him, 
lest his necessities should induce him to ask from them 
aid which the3 r were too selfish to grant. In truth, 
Erolt was sinking under the waves of adversity, and 
society had, in disgust, averted its head from a spec- 
tacle it did not wish to contemplate. 

But while we may reason about this change and 
calmly sum up its cause and effect— weighing with un- 


150 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


prejudiced calmness the various atoms of circumstan- 
tial evidence which determined its solution — Arthur 
Erolt could only feel the result, and not reason as to 
its causes. He knew that although he had many faults, 
he had committed no sin— that though he had done much 
to be sorry for, he had nothing to be ashamed of. 

He was alone ! He realized the fact — beyond that 
he was ignorant. The knowledge filled him with 
amazement and surprise, but not with bitterness ; 
though it often left him a prey to a vague pain and 
melancholy. 

His courage began to weaken. He was tired of this 
daily contact with an unjust, wicked world. Had he 
possessed the means he would probably have retired to 
some out4Sf-the-way country place, and there live the 
life of a recluse until some revulsion of feeling sent 
him back into the world again. But his bread and 
butter depended upon his daily work and he knew not 
how to gain his living away from some busy mart of 
trade. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A FRIEND IN NEED. 

The constant rebuffs which Arthur Erolt met from 
those who in prosperity had been his friends, disheart- 
ened him and made every stone in the city of New 
York detestable to him. The frequent checks and re- 
pulsions deprived him of that mental confidence which 
is necessary to the production of good mental work. 
Hope — the great stimulant to progress and activity — 
was wounded almost unto death by the constant fail- 
ure of his endeavors. He recognized that this future 
was growing, day by day, more precarious — that his 
nature was changing, that his power and ability to 
win success in life were waning. He felt that new as- 
sociations were necessary for the redemption of his fac- 
ulties, which were benumbed by their present sur- 
roundings. Yet he hated to leave New York. The 
very condition of paralysis to which his energy had 
succumbed made him more unwilling to strike out 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


151 


anew. But his mind, though clouded by melancholy, 
had not yet lost its circumspection. Its" very despair 
gave it a certain strengths 

He never quite realized how he summoned will power 
to go away — but go he did ; and after a few weeks, 
which ever seemed to him like time spent in a state of 
somnambulism, he found himself established in a stu- 
dio in the city of Detroit, trying to earn his living as 
an artist. The change of scene seemed to infuse him 
with new life, and he began to regain something of his 
former £>ower and composure. # 

He had been there for a year or more when one day 
there was a knock on the door of his studio, and when 
he called out, “ Come in !” a pleasant-faced, well- 
dressed man stepped forward, and holding out his 
hand, said : 

“ Well, Arthur, how are you ?” 

The artist looked at his visitor for a moment, and 
then, being convinced that he had never seen him be- 
fore, remarked quietly : 

“ I think you have the advantage of me, sir.” 

“What!” cried the stranger, “you don’t remem- 
ber me, and won’t shake hands ’till a^ou do ! Why 
3 r ou’re the same suspicious old fellow that you were 
at school !” 

A vague sense of recognition began to dawn upon 
the artist’s mind, and he stared more earnestly at his 
visitor until, at last, he sprang forward, and seizing 
the other’s hand, exclaimed : 

“ Well, I declare ! If it isn’t Dudley Hobsel !” 

“ Of course it is, old fellow,” said the man thus ad- 
dressed. “Why, I knew you the minute I set eyes 
upon you.” 

“ But you have changed, Dudley. Remember I've 
not seen you for ten years. You have grown taller 
and stouter, and your"beard is a disguise.” 

“ Ten years is a long time, Arthur, especially when 
it turns youth into manhood, as in our cases. 1 would 
know you anywhere, although you are no longer the 
jolly little boy you were at Everest’s.” 

“Ah, those "old school-days!” the artist answered 
with a sigh. “I often wish", Dudley, that they were 
back again.” 


152 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Yet, I am afraid you have forgotten our old friend- 
ship since you have forgotten me.” 

“You wrong me — indeed you do. I have often 
thought of you. Do you think I can ever forget the 
scrape we got into by putting the crickets into Dun- 
bar’s desk, or the days when we recited together in 
Priest’s Latin class ! Great heavens, Dudley, I shall 
remember the old clock-case where he kept his rattans 
as long as I live !” 

“ Or those wonderful distributions of candy which we 
used J,o have every two weeks, and Miss Granger’s 
cold dinners on Sunday !” 

“ But, here, sit down, old fellow, and tell me what 
you’ve been doing these ten years since we left school. 
Why didn’t you write ? I’ve not heard a word about 
you since then, though I’ve often wondered w T here you 
were!” 

“ But you’re busy, are you not ?” 

“ Only painting. As I have been doing that for a 
year past without selling many of my productions, I 
think I may spare a few hours to a man whom I have 
not seen since we were chums together at boarding- 
school.” 

“You haven’t changed a, bit, Arthur, except in ap- 
pearance — you’re as sarcastic as ever. Let’s see some 
of your paintings.” 

“ Bah ! Tell me vdiat you’ve been doing.” 

“ I won’t tell you a word till you’ve shown me your 
work. What’s that on your easel?” 

“ That ? Sheep feeding on a meadow. I’ve scarcely 
begun it yet. Here is a finished picture — cow r boys driv- 
ing cattle on the Plains. You see I restrict myself 
almost entirely to animal paintings.” 

“ Judging by my recollections, you ought to paint 
frogs, lizards and beetles. Do you remember the me- 
nagerie you had in your desk until Styles found it 
out ?” 

■ “ Don’t I ! Priest put me on bread and water for tv 7 o 
days because of it. Here’s a painting — Cattle Drink- 
ing at Sunset — you see I’ve put in a frog, dovm in the 
left hand corner of the pool.” 

“ But, Arthur, you don’t mean to say you don’t sell 

these pictures ?” 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


153 


“That’s the case, however. I’ve not sold five pic- 
tures in a year.” 

“ How the devil do you live then ?” 

“Well, I have a little money that I saved, and I 
have lived on thal ; but it is about all gone now, and 
I can only dread that pretty soon I will have to live on 
credit. Artists get to be experts at that, you know, 
in hard times.” 

“ Great Caesar’s ghost! Worse artists than you 
sell a picture every week.” 

“ Hardly as often as that; but you forget that no 
matter how good an artist I may be I must become 
known before I can become successful. If one of your 
rich Hew York collectors would buy a picture of me it 
would give me a standing and I would be more lucky.” 

“ Why don’t you come back to Hew York then ?” 

“ Well, you see, Dudley, I have thought about it 
lately, but I have a horror of returning there.” 

“ Of course, your family helped you not at all, ex- 
cept in advice and criticism.’ 

“ Well, partly so, although through their influence I 
have sold some six or seven pictures for twenty-five or 
fifty dollars each — a little more than the cost of the 
colors, canvases and frames.” 

“That’s' the character of the only help you’ll get 
from famity friends. You ought to go out into society, 
and marry some rich girl — artists and literary men 
need rich wives.” 

“ So everyone says* for my part I prefer poverty 
and independence^ being the slave of a rich wife, and 
as for going into society, why I get up every day at 
sunrise, so as to take advantage of the morning light, 
and that necessitates my going to bed early, you know. 
Once in a while I go out to dinners, but those are the 
only dissipations I allow myself.” 

“ And so you starve and paint ? Well, some of these 
days when you’re famous you’ll look back at these 
times, and laugh at them, just as we do at the troub- 
les of our school-days.” 

“ I suppose so. As we get older we magnify the 
pleasures of the past. How tell me something about 
yourself. You always wanted to be an inventor — so I 
suppose you are one.” 


154 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“No. Men seldom follow their boyish fancies. I am 
pretty near to it though, for lam a civil engineer.’ 

“ Getting along well, I hope.” 

‘ 4 So-so. Last year I did all the engineering work 
on a Coney Island railroad and took all my pay in 
bonds, which, wonderful to relate, I subsequently dis- 
posed of at par. Just now I am engineer of the Sub- 
Oceanic Railway Company.” 

“What’s that ?” 

“A company to build a railroad under the Atlantic 
Ocean.” 

*f Ha-ha-ha !” 

“Oh well, you may laugh, but it’s a grand scheme. 
Just think of the millions of tons of freight a month 
that the sailing vessels and the steamships carry, all 
of which would be carried by a railroad, if there was 
one, to say nothing of the mails and passengers. 
Why, man alive, it’s a grand scheme.” 

“ But 3 r ou don’t mean to say it’s anything more than 
a bubble ?” 

“ Well, you see, Arthur, the case is just this — and 
I’m going to speak plain to you, because unless you’ve 
changed greatly, which I don’t believe you have, you 
won’t repeat what I say to you. There are a lot of 
men about New York who are never happy unless they 
are in some new scheme — building a railroad some- 
where. Well, by this time all the likely points are 
connected by rail, and the scheme of building railroads 
parallel with old established ones has been worked until 
it’s played out. In the dearth of all other feasible 
schemes, these men have hit upon the idea of connect- 
ing Europe and America by a railroad under the ocean, 
an idea only a little more daring than that of the sub- 
marine telegraph ; and, with a wisdom worthy of all 
praise, have requested me to furnish them with esti- 
mates of the cost of a pneumatic railway.” 

“But is the scheme feasible ?” 

“Feasible enough if you give money enough to it and 
can provide proper machinery to carry it out. Imag- 
ine the telegraph cable to be a hollow tube with a cur- 
rent of air rushing through it, and you have at once a 
miniature pneumatic railway. My idea is to lay two 
parallel pipes or tubes of iron or steel, twelve feet in 


A FRIEND IN NEED, 


155 


diameter, from Montauk Point over to some point in 
England or France. It will be easy enough to get the 
tubes down to the bottom of the ocean, for all you’ve 
got to do is to load them on ships and drop them down 
at the proper points; but the difficulty will be to work 
at them down in the depths of the sea. So while my 
assistants are getting up data for the cost and strength 
of the pipes, I am at work trying to devise some sort 
of protection for the workmen.” 

“ And have you succeeded in discovering anything?” 

“ Well, I don’t know yet. I am going to try some 
experiments and am having the apparatus made now. 
I’ve designed some suits of steel armor — a sort of com- 
bination of the dresses of divers with the armor of medi- 
eval knights. The helmets used will be the same as 
used in ordinary submarine work. Under the armor we 
will wear suits of perforated chamois skin, and outside 
the armor will be a suit of leather saturated with a 
solution of caoutchouc to make it waterproof. But 
what I especially pride myself upon is a small box 
about two feet square which can be strapped upon the 
shoulders and will contain electric generators which 
will decompose water into oxygen and hydrogen. This 
oxygen will be conducted by a tube into the helmet, 
purifying the interior air for respiration. The vitiated 
air will be allowed to escape through a small orifice in 
the top of the helmet, which, by means of levers, will be 
automatically governed by the rise and fall of the chest 
in breathing. The electric generators will be driven by 
strong springs, which the wearer can wind up from 
time to time, and their action will be assisted by the 
escaping hydrogen. Then each helmet is fitted with a 
telephone arrangement opposite the ear and the mouth, 
so that conversation can be carried on, and will be 
pierced by a tube within reach of the wearer’s lips, so 
that water or soup may be taken from bottles outside, 
if nourishment is desired. Thus you see we shall be 
perfectly safe and independent. Then we can have be- 
low a submarine ship or box to which we can retire at 
night ; or we can ascend to a ship on the surface.” 

“ But will it work ?” 

“ That no one can know until it has been tried.” 

‘ 4 It seems to me the craziest scheme I ever heard of !” 


156 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Perhaps it is. However, it brings me fame and 
experience and some money, so I can’t object to it.” 

Then the talk between these two men, who had been 
schoolmates, drifted off from the affairs of the present 
to topics of the past, — to boyish pranks and scrapes, 
and recollections of comrades and teachers. 

As Dudley Hobsel had merely stopped over for a 
day to see his old chum, and was to leave in the train 
the following- day, they dined together and sat up late 
talking over old "times and building plans for the future. 
They also breakfasted together the next morning, and 
Arthur Erolt went to the railroad station with his 
friend and saw him depart. 

But before Dudley Hobsel left he grasped his friend 
warmly by the hand and exclaimed : “ Keep a brave 
heart, old fellow : I have a presentiment that the tide 
of Fortune is about to turn in 3 T our favor.” 

Before Erolt could ask him what he meant , the train 
began to move and Dudley jumped on to it. Until it 
was out of sight Erolt saw him standing on the rear 
platform waving his hand and smiling at him. 

Arthur Erolt’ s studio jvas at the top of an office 
building. Formerly it had been a photographer’s place 
of business, but it was vacant when Arthur came to 
town, and he had hired it because of its good light. Its 
large windows, already fitted with blue shades, looked 
towards the North, and Arthur had placed his knick- 
knacks about the room, spread a few Turkish rugs 
upon the floor, put his furniture into position, moved 
in his artist apparatus, nailed one modest card on the 
door of the room and another on the directory down 
stairs, and gone to work. One corner had been parti- 
tioned off by curtains, and this was his sleeping apart- 
ment. and a small gas stove enabled him to cook his 
frugal breakfasts; for his dinners he depended upon the 
cheap restaurants. 

But Erolt, as he told Dudley Hobsel, had had hard 
luck. Although he painted indefatigably and labor- 
iously, somehow his pictures did not sell, and as they 
accumulated so did his debts also. 

As he sat down to resume his work after his return 
from the railroad station, this subject of debt began to 
harrass his mind. He owed pretty nearly everybody 


A FRIEND IN NEED. 


157 


that he came in contact with. First, there was Morris, 
the picture dealer, whom he owed for colors, canvases 
and frames — a pretty big* bill, exactty how much he 
did not know. That was a regular thing, however, 
of which there was no use thinking ; all artists had 
such a bill outstanding. Then there was Strathspey 
& Co., to whom he owed a tailor’s bill of some seventy- 
five dollars, and here it was getting late in the spring, 
and he would want a new suit of summer clothes before 
long. He fell to wondering if Strathspey would make 
him another suit on credit. Besides these there were 
a lot of little bills — debts due to Owens, the livery 
stable keeper, to Mary Sullivan, his janitress and 
washerwoman, and a host of others, ranging from a 
dollar and a half and upwards. As these came to mind 
Arthur laughed bitterly, and thought that it was get- 
ting to be high time for his fortune to change, as Dud- 
ley Ilobsel had prophesied it would. 

He worked away until it was dark, then having 
cleaned his brushes, he covered his canvas, changed his 
coat and went out for dinner. 

He did not return until about ten o’clock, and then 
having lighted the gas jet, he looked in his letter box, 
in hopes of finding there a letter or a card, but the box 
was empty. It must be confessed that he was disap- 
pointed, for somehow that parting remark of Dudley 
Hobsel’s had made an impression on him, it agreed so 
well with his necessities that he had looked for its 
speedy confirmation. So strong, indeed, was the im- 
pression, that hearing sounds in the janitor’s apart- 
ments which betokened that Michael Sullivan, the 
janitor, had not yet retired, he knocked at the door. 

Mike himself opened it, and seeing who his visitor 
was, exclaimed : 

“ Och, is it you, Misther Erolt ! Won’t you warruk 
in, sor ! ’ ’ 

“ No, thank you, Mike, I only wanted to ask if there 
was a card or a letter left for me while I was out.” 

u Wait a minit, sor, till I shpake to the ould ’ooman, 
perhaps she’ll know,” Mike said, disappearing into an 
adjoining room and returning almost immediately with 
the announcement that no card nor letter had been 
left, 


158 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Has anyone called to see me ?” Arthur asked. 

“ Divil a person has come up since ye a wint out 
for dinner, sor,” Mike replied. 

Arthur went back to his room and soon retired to 
bed, remarking* aloud, as he pulled the bed clothes over 
him, “Ah, Dudley, I’m afraid you are a false 
prophet !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES. 

In spite of the sensation of disappointment which had 
filled his mind as he retired to rest on the previous 
night, Arthur Erolt was up and at work soon after 
sunrise the next morning. 

He had his breakfast, consisting of coffee, a couple 
of boiled eggs, fresh rolls and butter, about eight 
o’clock, and having lighted his pipe was about to re- 
sume his painting. Somehow, however, as he took up 
his brush he felt strangely disinclined for work, and 
laid it down again and looked around the room to see 
if there was anything he had not read. But the only 
books his eyes rested upon were novels which he knew 
by heart, having already perused them over and over 
again. 

“ Pshaw !” he muttered, as he blew a great cloud 
of smoke from his pipe, “ I really must take a morning 
newspaper.” 

He had made this same resolve a great many times 
before, but when it came to the point of giving his or- 
der the expense had deterred him, and he might as 
well have been in Kamschatka as in Detroit for all he 
knew of the news of the day. Once in a while he look- 
ed over an evening newspaper in the restaurant where 
he dined, but that was all. 

Disgusted with his paucity of reading matter, he took 
his seat once more before his easel ; but he had scarcely 
taken a dozen strokes with his brush when there came a 
knock at his studio door. In answer to his cry of 


ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES. 


159 


“ come in,” the door opened, and a spare, wizened little 
man with a Jewish cast of features entered. 

“ Ah, Mr. Morris, I’m glad to see you,” Arthur ex- 
claimed, rising*, while to himself he muttered, “ Con- 
found him ; lib’s come to see about his bill. I wonder 
if I can’t g*et him to take a picture in part pay- 
ment.” 

“ And how you vas, my young friend, dis morning ?’’ 
his visitor asked, cheerfully. “ Hard at vork, I see — 
ah, dat is right. I vas intending dese many tays to gif 
you a call, and dis morning I say to myself, ‘Yosef, 
you must go ’round dis morning and pay your combli- 
ments to dat fine young shentlemans, Mr. Arter 
Erolt.’ Vat vas you bainting, Mr. Erolt?” 

“ I have just begun upon that canvas, intending to 
paint sheep grazing — from studies I made last summer ; 
but here is something I think would please you.” 

So saying, Arthur took a canvas from among those 
which stood upon the floor with their faces to the wall, 
and placed it upon an easel. Then having lowered one 
shade and hoisted another, so as to obtain a favorable 
light, he stood off to get the effect. 

“ Yes, dat vas fine !” Mr. Morris ejaculated, when he 
had gazed at it for a little while. “ You vas an animil 
bainter, vas you not, Mr. Erolt ?” 

Arthur signified that he was, wondering: all the 
while how soon Mr. Morris was going to dun him about 
the bill. 

“ Dat is vat I tought, but you see I vas so forgetful 
dat I couldn’t slioost remember — but dat is vat I 
tought, and I tell my vife so de Oder tay. You see Mr. 
Erolt, my vife she has town in de country a horse vat 
she is very fond of, and I say to her, ‘ My tear, I vill 
make you a bresent of a picture of dat horse, and I vill 
get dat fine young shentlemans, Mr. Arter Erolt to 
baint him for you ?’ ” 

Arthur thought the little man must suddenly have 
gone crazy, but seeing that he paused as if expecting 
an answer, he replied, “ Of course, Mr. Morris, any 
commission you give me I will fill with pleasure.” 

“Yes, dat is what I say to my vife, ‘ He vill not be 
broud, dat young man ; lie vill come town to de farm 
and baint the horse.’ ” 


160 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ You wish me to go to your farm then, sir? 
When ?” 

“ Veil, if you vas not going avay so soon, ve vill say 
nexsht week. I vill let you know, and run town with 
you myself.” ♦ 

“ Very well, sir, I will hold myself in readiness.” 

“ And", Mr. Erolt, there vill be some artists of de city 
at my house dis evening, and if you vill come at six 
o’clock and take a blain lettle tinner vid us, I should 
be very much obliged.” 

“ Certainly, sir, 1 shall be there with pleasure.” 

“ Very veil den ! Now I must say goot-bye, for my 
vife she is vaiting to hear vedder you vill come or not.” 

And with that the dealer shook the artist warmly by 
the hand and vanished. 

Arthur looked at his retiring figure with astonish- 
ment. “ The old man’s gone crazy !” he said as the 
dealer’s form disappeared. “Well, never mind if 
he has, I’ve got an order, and I’ll get a dinner and 
who knows what will follow. Dudley ! Dudley ! 
You've proved a true prophet after all.” And kick- 
ing his slippers up to the ceiling, Arthur began a very 
undignified war-dance on the rug. 

Another knock on the door sobered him somewhat, 
and caused him hastily to resume his slippers and a 
more dignified attitude before he gave permission to 
enter. 

Smirking and bowing and washing his hands with 
invisible soap, a natty, little man entered, but Arthur, 
still somewhat dazed by the picture dealer’s strange 
behavior, failed to notice the propitiatory attitudes of 
the visitor and observed : 

“ I am very sorry, Mr. Strathspey, but just now I 
have no money about me, and that iittle bill will wait. 
I shall have funds shortly, however, and then I will 
settle it.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, sir,” the little man said with a de- 
precatory gesture, “the bill can wait ’till you are 
ready to pay it, sir. I am only sorry it is so small,” he 
continued with a faint smile. “ I have- heard of your 
good fortune, sir, and if it is not too much of a liberty, 
I would like to congratulate you upon it, sir.” 

“Morris must have met him at the door, and told 


ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES. 


1C1 


him about it,” Arthur thought, while Mr. Strathspey 
continued : 

“We have some nice new English goods, and as 
summer is near at hand, I was in hopes, sir, that you 
might desire a Chin suit, sir. I said to my partner this 
morning, ‘ I will just step around and see if Mr. Erolt 
does not want a new summer suit. Mr. Erolt/ says I 
to him, ‘ won’t be getting too proud to let us continue 
to make his clothes for him !’” 

Then seeing Arthur did not respond — being indeed 
struck dumb with astonishment— the little tailor 
whipped out liis tape and began to take his measure- 
ments. 

“Holdup your right arm, please, sir.” Up went 
Arthur’s arm like the arm of a lay figure. “ Thank 
you, sir, that will do. Now the other arm, please,” 

Down went the one and up went the other; while 
the tailor circled around with the tape. 

“ A little more erect, please, sir.” Arthur stood as 
rigid as a grenadier. 

“ There, I think that will do,” said the tailor at last, 
folding up his tape and replacing it in his pocket. 
“Will you come around in a week, sir, and try it on ? 
I trust you will not forget, sir ; and I trust, sir, that 
you will continue to favor us with your custom.” 

With these words the tailor bowed himself out, and 
hurried around to his shop where he reported all that 
had occurred to his partner. 

“ He is dazed with his good luck, that’s what he is !” 
said the little man. “ When I got to his room I heard 
a noise like as if he was throwing the furniture about, 
and when I went in there he was standing by the man- 
telpiece, looking all flurried like, and the first thing he 
did was to commence about the bill he owes us, how 
he hadn’t got any of the money yet, but would have 
it in a little while, so I up and told him it was no mat- 
ter about the bill, and I just pulled out my tape and 
took his measure. I’ll just go and see about his suit 
now — those check goods we got from New York will 
be just the thing.” 

But Arthur, when the door shut after the tailor, 
burst into a hysterical laugh. “ Is the world mad, or 
am I dreaming, or what?” he said. “Surely I’m 


m 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


awake. This is my studio, there’s my bed, I can feel 
myself pinch myself, I — ” 

He got no further, for there was another knock on 
the door, and a big red-faced Irishman burst in, and 
rushing up, seized Arthur’s hand in his red brawny 
fist, and exclaimed : 

44 Och, Master Erolt, I congratulate ye, I do. Sure 
whin I drew the kerridge for yer father in Brooklyn, 
didn't I alius say that Master Arthur wud become 
rich and famous and a great man.” 

44 Great heavens !” Arthur thought, 44 Morris must 
have told them all.” Aloud he said, beseechingly : 

44 For heaven’s sake tell me how you heard of it ?” 

44 That I will, me b’y. Sure I was at the shtable 
whin Misther Morris, the little Jew picter daler, passed 
by, an’ he shtopped he did, an’ he sez to me, 4 Have 
ye heard the news ?’ sez he. 4 Divil, a bib, sez I, onless 
ye mane that ould Widd.y Jones down beyant is did’, 
fur that’s the only news I’d heard. An’ thin he shpake 
an’ he tould me, an’ I sez to mesilf, 4 I’ll jist rin ’round 
an’ congraterlate the b’y, fur I driv his father’s ker- 
ridge fur tin year an’ it’s mesilf taught him how ter 
ride an’ ter drive. ’ But I must go back now, Masther 
Arthur, fer the livery business is as loively as the divil 
liisself, this mornin’ ; och sure wasn’t it the masther 
as set me up in it — the saints bliss him fur that same 
dade. But come round to the shtable, me dear b’y, 
come round to the shtable ; the hosses is jist shpilin’ 
ter be rid.” 

And with these words and another hearty shake of 
the hand, the livery stable keeper took his departure. 

Arthur dropped helplessly into a chair. 44 Dudley ! 
Dudley !” he muttered, ‘ 4 what spell have you thrown 
over these people to make them all crazy ? I must be 
dreaming— this can’t be real ! It’s like a nightmare, 
these people coming in this way, one after another.” 

While thus musing there was apother knock at the 
door ; so faint, however, that Arthur did not hear it 
until it was repeated. 

44 There’s another maniac,” he thought, and sat 
staring at the door until the knock was repeated a 
third time. 

44 Come in !” he cried. 


ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES. 


163 


As the door slowly opened two large hands appeared 
holding a tra;y, and closely following these came the 
tall, bony frame of an Irishwoman whom Arthur re- 
cognized* at once as Mrs. Mary Sullivan, the janitress. 
She laid her tray down, and then turning to Arthur, 
bobbed a curtesy and addressed him as follows : 

44 Shure Mister Erolt,Mick and meself wish ye joy wid 
yer luck,, an’ thinkin’ as how ye moight be hungry I jist 
made bould to put a bottle of beer an’ a chop an’ some 
praties on the waither, an’ I sez to Mick, 4 Mick, carry 
them things inter Misther Erolt,’ and Mick he says to 
me, ‘ Carry thim yersilf, Molly, for shure I wouldn’t 
know where to put them nor what ter say ter the gin- 
tlemanwhin I got there,’ sez he. An’ Mick an’ me 
congraterlate ye, we does, sor, the s'aints be praised! ” 

“But, Mrs. Sullivan,” Arthur cried in desperation, 
44 who on earth told you ?” 

4 4 Sure, sor, I was asw apin’ the shtairs whin Misther 
Morris come down an’ he slitopped an’ sez he, 4 Take 
good care of Mr. Erolt,’ says he, 4 fur he’s goin’ ter be 
a great mon.’ 4 How’s that ?’ sez I. An’ wid that he 
up an’ tould me. An’ I’m sure that Mick an’ me con- 
graterlate ye sor, an’ this I will say, sense I spose ye’ll 
be alavin’ of us now, that a nicer, quieter, purtier 
gintleman than yesilf, sor, niver had these rooms.” 

And Mrs. Sullivan made another bob that was in- 
tended as a curtesy and was gone. 

44 Well,” said Arthur, 44 a man cannot very w r ell eat 
a meal when he’s asleep— at least I never heard of one 
that he finished before he woke up— so here goes,” and 
he proceeded to demolish the lunch, so kindly provid- 
ed. 

He was left alone for about an hour and he was 
considering the expediency of going out and taking a 
walk, thinking that the exercise would settle his 
nerves, so much upset by the occurrences of the morn- 
ing, wiien once more there sounded on the panel of his 
door a gentle rat-tat- tat. 

44 Come in !” he cried. 

In came the janitress with her thumb and forefingers 
protected by a corner of her apron, and a card held 
tightly between them. 

44 The gintleman sez he won’t come up ’til ye give 


164 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


him permission,” she said as she presented the paste- 
board. 

Arthur took it and read : 

4 ‘ Kosciusko Platka, 

Fine Boots and Shoes.” 

44 My shoemaker, by Jove !” he thought. 44 Has he 
come for my money, or can it be true that all the 
world bows down and worships a man, when he gets 
his first ray of success ?” 

Aloud he said, “You may ask him to come up, if 
you please, Mrs. Sullivan.” 

44 So, Mr. Platka,” he said, when the shoemaker en- 
tered, “ you have heard of my good fortune, have 
you?” 

4 4 Yah, Herr Erolt.” 

44 Who told you ?” 

4 4 Mr. Strathspey, he told me.” 

44 And you’ve come after the amount. of your bill, I 
suppose ?” 

44 Acb, mein Herr, nein ! 1 come for to measure you 
for a new pair of shoes.” 

44 All right !” said Arthur, putting his foot out. 

44 1 might as well take the goods the gods provide,” 
he thought. 44 I’ll try this fellow and see how far this 
credit goes.” Aloud he said : 

44 You may measure me for a pair of light dancing 
shoes, also, Mr. Platka.” 

44 Yah, Herr Erolt, you vill liab de padend letters ?” 

44 Yes, patent leather ; and while you are about it, 
you may make me a pair of strong walking shoes.” 

44 Yah, Herr Erolt.” 

44 And when will you want the money for those?” 

44 Venever you bleeze, Herr Erolt.” 

44 But I sha’n’t get any money for some time you 
know ?” 

44 Very veil. You bay venever you bleeze.” 

44 Now, see here, Mr. Platka. I was not in earnest, 
but I am now. 1 will take one pair of low Summer 
shoes and pay you for them — ahem, some time — but I 
don’t want the others, and I won’t take them !” 

44 Shoost as you bleeze, Herr Erolt.” 

44 Great Scott !” Arthur exclaimed, when the shoe- 


ALTERED CIRCUMSTANCES. 


165 


maker had gone, “ who would have thought that such 
a revolution in the manner of my creditors could have 
been accomplished by an order from Morris ! I wonder 
what will happen next ?” 

He had not long to wait for there was soon another 
rap at the door, and in answer to Arthur’s permission, 
a gentleman and a lady entered. 

Arthur rose immediately. 

“ Mr. Arthur Erolt ?” said the stranger. 

“ That’s my name, sir.” 

“ Allow me, then, to introduce myself — Benjamin 
Gibson — my daughter, Seraphina.” 

Arthur bowed. 

“We are refurnishing our house, sir, and Mr. Morris 
advised us to call upon you, sir.” 

“Mr. Morris probably told you that he had given me 
a commission for himself, sir ?” 

“ I believe he did say something of the sort.” 

“ Why, papa ! You know he said that Mr. Erolt was 
to paint Mrs. Morris’ favorite horse, and you promis- 
ed to have him paint me on Dandy. You know you 
did !” 

“ Sure enough, so I did. You see, Mr. Erolt, my 
daughter has disclosed my intentions. May we now 
look at your work?” 

Arthur brought out his paintings, placed them in 
the best lights, descanted on their good points, and 
succeeded in selling two of them at good prices to Mr. 
Benjamin Gibson, and when that gentleman took his 
departure, Arthur had received a commission to paint 
Miss Seraphina on horseback ; and the task was to be 
begun as soon as he had completed the painting for 
Mr. Morris. 

The hour had now arrived when Arthur was to dress 
for the dinner at the picture dealer’s if he would be on 
time, and so he made his toilet and arrived only five 
minutes late. 

There was a good deal said at the dinner table about 
Arthur’s good fortune, and Mr. Morris even went so 
far as to estimate his future income as high as a hun- 
dred thousand dollars. But Arthur was in a hopeful 
mood, and in the humor to look at the very rosiest side 
of every question. 


166 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ I say, old fellow,” said Ned Hosford, a brother ar- 
tist, to Arthur, as they walked away from the picture 
dealer’s, “ I hope you won’t feel above us all now.” 

“Why, of course not, Ned; what do you take me 
for? A little thing* like this ?” 

“A little thing ! I wish I had half of it.” 

“ Pooh ! Everyone seems to magnify it.” 

“ I suppose you’ll give up art now !” 

“ I hope not. I don’t see why I shouldn’t work to 
make money and to improve at the same time. And 
I don’t intend to let it be said of me, as of some artists, 
that the greater my income the less my art.” 

“Well, old fellow, I’ve seen money change the 
natures of a great many men, but somehow I think 
you’ll ring true, in spite of your good luck.” 

“ I trust you won’t drop me to find out,” Arthur 
said, laughing. “ Good-night.” 

“ Good-night.” 

Arthur found the orders come in rapidly, and he be- 
gan to wonder more and more at the cause of this 
sudden turn of Fortune’s wheel. The more he thought 
about it, the more convinced he was that Dudley 
Hobsel had some hand in bringing it about— else how 
had he been able to prophesy so emphatically ? He 
wrote to that eccentric engineer, but getting no an- 
swer, concluded that Dudley was off on some experi- 
mental trip. 

Meanwhile he became too busy to think much about 
anything except the work on hand. He was soon busily 
engaged on Mr. Morris’ commission, and when that 
was finished there was Miss Gibson waiting for him. 

What generally happens when a young man twenty - 
eight years old, and somewhat inclined to be senti- 
mental, is thrown constantly into the society of a 
pretty woman, heart- free and romantic — and seven 
years his junior? What happens then? Why it is 
generally a case of Cupid and the marriage cere- 
mony. 

So while Arthur was engaged in painting the fair 
face of Miss Serapliina Gibson upon his canvas, he 
was likewise imprinting it upon his heart ; and the 
young lad}', while she sat for her portrait, took an in- 
delible likeness of him. Thus, before the portrait on 


THE RESULT OE AN EXPLANATION. 


107 


the canvas was complete (perhaps it had been inten- 
tionally delayed a little), Arthur had spoken and Miss 
Gibson had said — “yes.” 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE RESULT OF EXPLANATION. 

It was not until after Arthur’s engagement was 
announced that Dudley Hobsel turned up again — he 
told some cock-and-bull story about his having never 
received the letters which Arthur had written, and he 
listened patiently while Arthur put him in possession 
of the events which had happened since his last visit. 

“ But,” Arthur said, “ I’ve often wondered how you 
came to prophesy so truly that my luck would change. 
Confess now, that you had a finger in it.” 

Dudley laughed. “ You never knew ?” he said. 

“ Never ! ” 

“ Never knew why Morris gave 3 T ou that order ?” 

“ Never !” 

“Nor why your creditors came beseeching further 
custom, as you described to me?” 

“No.” 

“ I’ve a great mind not to tell you, Arthur, but it’s 
so long ago now, and you’re safely engaged, so that 
no harm can come of it.” 

He pulled out his pocket-book and took therefrom 
two newspaper cuttings, which he gave to Arthur. 

Wanted — The addresses of the heirs and next of kin of 
Arthur Leonard Ennis Erolt, late of Madras, deceased. Address, 
Selfridge & Potter, 29 Strand, London, England. 

“ We understand that an uncle of our esteemed fellow towns- 
man, Mr. Arthur Erolt, has just died in Madras, leaving him a 
fortune estimated at a million and a half. Mr. Erolt is a prom- 
inent young artist, and we congratulate him on his luck.” 

“And you put those notices in the paper,” Arthur 
asked, at last, having gazed at the slips for some min- 
utes. 


108 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ They were published the morning* after I left,” 
Dudley Hobsel replied. “Don’t get angry, Arthur, 
it was the only way that I could bring you fame and 
fortune.” 

“Fm not angry,” Arthur remarked after a pause. 
“ I thank your kind intentions ; but I could almost 
wish you had not told me this. It was the bitter 
experience of the change which poverty makes in a 
man’s circumstances, which drove me away from New 
York, and I foresee now that the same experience will 
drive me from Detroit.” 

“ Pooh ! no one need know it.” 

“ Dudley, you ought to be ashamed of yourself ! 
You ought to know me well enough to know that I 
would not for a minute have countenanced a fraud of 
this kind.” 

“ Pshaw ! You’re too squeamishly scrupulous !” 

“No, I am only honest. To-morrow I shall break 
the news to Miss Gibson and her father, and whether 
I stay here or not will depend upon how they receive 
it. That those who bought my pictures thought me 
rich, does not trouble me, for they received full value 
for their money ; I have made money enough to pay 
my tradesmen’s accounts— so they will not suffer — but 
I see now that the Gibsons thought me rich, and I 
must dis-illusion them.” 

“ Well, if you want to be a fool, I don’t know how 
to stop you.” 

“ Don’t try to, Dudley, or I should cease to respect 
you.” 

Arthur Erolt carried out his resolution. The pa- 
ternal Gibson heard his story with evident astonish- 
ment, and with many “hems ” and “ haws ” delivered 
himself as follows : 

“ Of course, Mr. Erolt, you are aware that when we 
gave our consent to your union with our daughter, we 
supposed that you had become rich. You must see 
yourself, that what you have told me puts quite a dif- 
ferent aspect on affairs. No one can regret it more 
than I do — you have my sincerest sympathy, person- 
ally — you are all that I could wish, for a 'son-in-law — 
but you will see for yourself, that under this phase of 
the case, your union with my daughter must be— 


THE RESULT OF AN EXPLANATION. 


169 


ahem — postponed — yes, postponed until you are in a 
position to marry/’ 

Arthur remonstrated, but uselessly. He was poor ; 
therefore, no prudent father could permit him to mar- 
ry his daughter. 

Arthur realized that this postponement of his mar- 
riage was the first step towards the dissolution of his 
engagement ; and so it proved/ When his poverty 
was known his new acquaintances dropped him, cus- 
tomers ceased to frequent his studio, and in the end, 
Serapliina Gibson announced that she thought it best 
that both should be disembarrassed of the ties that 
bound them, and that their engagement was severed. 

Then Detroit became, as New York had, horribly 
distasteful to Arthur Erolt, and he went back again to 
the latter city. 

He felt that there was but one method of livelihood 
open to him now, and that lay in his pen. Like all 
men who have been educated, he knew how to write, 
and some few of his compositions Lad been praised by 
his friends. At all events, the paths of literature 
looked pleasant, and it would be no harm to tread 
them for a little while. 

At first, he met with encouragement. Modestly 
doubting his own powers of authorship, he decided 
that in the beginning he would write for practice as 
much as for money, and would deem himself fortunate 
if he found a publisher. He restricted himself to short 
tales (which really are the most difficult of all literary 
composition to raise above mediocrity) and short 
poems. Some of these were published by papers which 
did not pay, and encouraged by this, Erolt became an 
author. What, also, was an additional inducement 
for this change of occupation, was his former training 
as an artist. He thought that he could illustrate his 
own stories, and thus add to their attractiveness. It 
seemed to him that these two things combined ought 
to alleviate his poverty. He had ambition and indus- 
try. His mind was stored with incidents — pathetic, 
comic, amusing, witty, historical, imaginative and 
reminiscent — but he was a novice in the art of clothing 
them in the customary garb of words. 

Alas, authorship requires of its votaries that they 


170 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


should spend the energy, freshness and virility of 
their brains in preliminary experience, and achieve lit- 
erary reputation only when age has dulled the pleas- 
ure of success, and the soul has suffered the bitterness 
of disappointment until its capability for appreciating 
what it once most desired, is extinct. 

Erolt was a tyro. His stories lacked intricacy and 
continuity of plot ; his heroes and ’ heroines were not 
properly prominent. He had not yet mastered the 
power of dramatic descriptions. His pathos was 
pathetic in incident, not in narration. Yet in his writ- 
ings there were signs which evidenced talent and prog- 
nosticated success — after the necessary drudgery of 
apprenticeship, and the stern discipline of failure had 
been undergone. 

Full of ambition to start upon the new mode of life 
which he had chosen, Arthur Erolt was anxious to get 
to work. He shut himself up in his little hall bedroom 
under the roof, and carefully read over the various 
manuscripts which he had written. None of them 
seemed to him to be good enough to make his first real 
venture with, and he determined to write a new story, 
better than the others. 

He felt now the want of some literary friend who 
would advise him how to go to work to write, and 
more important yet, how to sell what he had written. 
He knew not one such. Literary life was to him an 
unknown sea over which he was to journey without 
chart or guide. Yet his ignorance carried with it this 
compensation that he knew not what storms and perils 
threatened. At first he enjoyed this sedentary life of 
literary composition. He had faith in his own powers, 
and hoped that his troubles were at an end. He pon- 
dered deeply as to what the subject of the tale he was 
to write should be. He wished to write something 
that was generally pleasing, so that if one magazine 
refused it, it would not be unsuitable for the next. 
Love stories, he knew were generally liked — but his 
own heart was too sore to write of love. Should he 
write a tragedy ? Alas, the tragedy of his own life 
threw all others in the shade. Comedy? He knew 
that a comic story was beyond his powers. He began 
more than one tale, but put his unfinished manuscript 


“MR; HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 171 

aside, disgusted with what he Avrote. Not until after 
many trials did he succeed in completing one that he 
liked, and when that was finished, he spent Aveeks re- 
A\ T riting, polishing and correcting it. 

At last he thought that he could not further im- 
prove it and he determined to send it off without fur- 
thur correction. It was as folloAvs : 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“MR. HOLBROOKE. 

BY 

ARTHUR EROLT.” 

Although this story, which I am about to tell, is 
true, it Avill, no doubt, be considered as purely imagin- 
ary. Not that I care much whether it is so considered 
or not, but no one likes to tell a “fairy tale” as the 
truth, except, perhaps, to children — and even although 
1 should not be believed, it eases my conscience to 
make this explanation. To those Avho persist in disbe- 
lieving its verity, I can only quote the someAvhat trite 
saying, that “truth is stranger than fiction.” 

Others might, perhaps, make a first-rate ghost story 
out of Avhat happened : I shall only narrate the circum- 
stances, as they occurred, plainly and Avithout exagger- 
ation ; hut before I can really get to the gist of my 
story, I must premise a few remarks concerning myself 
and my surroundings. 

Filstly, then : I am no shallow-pated sentimental 
school-girl, but a middle-aged married Avoman Avith a 
husband and six children, and enough household cares 
to keep me down to an ordinary hum-drum existence. 
My husband, who holds an important position in a 
large factory in the toAvn where Ave live, is also too 
busy Avith his many cares'to be either a very senti- 
mental or very imaginative man ; and yet he heard 
and saw Avhat I heard and saw, and approves, of my 
noting Avhat occurred. 


172 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN* 


Secondly : Up to the time of the happening of the 
events which I shall narrate, neither of us had ever 
see'n a ghost nor believed in spiritualism nor its kin- 
dred isms. Indeed, we rather thought — as “plan- 
chette ” would not work when either of us was present, 
and spiritual seances which we attended were barren 
of results, that we were antagonistic to all ghostly 
things. 

Thirdly : Neither of us believe in those psychologi- 
cal phenomena called “ haun tings,” and we both were 
of the opinion that sights and sounds, rappings and 
apparitions were either the results of natural causes, 
or of fancy, or imposture. 

The house we had lived in since we were married, 
had grown too small for our increasing family ; the 
elder children were too old to be kept in the nursery, 
and the girls required a separate room for themselves, 
and the boys must have another. As our home was not 
very large, this arrangement had occupied my spare 
bed-room, and left me Avithout a place to put a guest, 
and if we did live in a little town in northeastern 
Connecticut, I saAv, in that, no reason why I should 
lose trace of all my old friends and schoolmates. At 
night, too, our one parlor became often uncomfortably 
crowded and noisy, and if Dick — my husband — or 
myself felt weary and tired, and wished to read or 
write, we had either to do so in the hubbub which six 
healthy children could make, encourage the children 
to go out, or else go away ourselves ; and neither of 
these alternatives did we care to adopt. 

The question of moving into a larger house had 
therefore been for some time very seriously discussed 
by my husband and myself, and we had long been on 
the lookout for a desirable dwelling. For quite a 
while, however, our quest was fruitless, and my hus- 
band began to talk of building — a project of which I, 
considering the state of our finances, heartily disap- 
proved. 

There was, at the other end of the toAvn in which 
we lived, a large, old-fashioned house, at which I had 
often cast covetous glances. It was somewhat out of 
repair, and a good deal further away from the factory 
than Our cottage, and these considerations had for a 


MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 


173 


cc 


long 4 time deterred me from considering it as available 
for our needs ; but Dick’s persistent mention of build- 
ing — and Dick can be very obstinate and set in his 
ways, sometimes, when he fairly gets a notion settled 
in his head— determined me to advocate its merits as a 
dwelling. As a result of my doing so, Dick, one Sat- 
urday afternoon, left the factory earlier than usual ; 
and, having obtained the key from the agent, we both 
tramped over the old house from cellar to garret. It 
was fearfully and wonderfully dirty, but seemed to be 
in better repair than we had anticipated. By making 
some alterations and spending a small amount of mon- 
ey, and by a lavish use of soap, sand, water and disin- 
fectants, the house could be made to suit our wants 
exactly ; and before we had finished our inspection, 
we determined to hire it, if we could agree with the 
landlord upon the rent. 

It was not until after the lease had been “ signed, 
sealed and delivered,” as the lawyers say, that we be- 
gan to hear rumors that the house was haunted. Such 
reports may have been afloat before, but if we had 
heard of them we had only smiled at and forgotten 
them ; but when we had really concluded our contract 
and felt a proprietary right in the house, such rumors 
had a personal interest —like traditions concerning 
one's ancestors, spread abroad by old gentlemen with 
inconvenient memories. But, as my husband laugh- 
ingly said, there had been enough water poured into 
the old house to wash all the ghosts away, and should 
one chance to remain he would catch his death of cold 
from the damp floors and walls. In the minds of us 
both, thorougli repairs, cats, rat-traps and disinfect- 
ants would prove antidotes for any ghostly or super- 
natural noises. 

After weeks of busy preparation we found ourselves 
installed in our new home, and experienced keen delight 
in having plenty of room. Instead of our one parlor, 
my husband now had his library, I had my drawing- 
room, and the family in general had their sitting-room. 
But best of all, I could boast of two spare bed-rooms ; 
and one of my early acts was to write off invitations to 
old school-mates to come and visit us. 

Naturally enough we were on the qui vive for super- 


174 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


natural phenomena ; and I must confess, that, from the 
first, we heard sounds, which we laughingly charac- 
terized as “ viewless footsteps,” borrowing the term 
from an old ghost story which Dick used to tell to the 
children. There were certain rappings, also, hut no 
apparitions nor any moving of heavy things that we 
knew of, so that we were content to trust to the cats 
and rat-poison to cause a cessation of the noises. 

It would not he right if I failed to state the curious 
change which the new house wrought in the actions of 
our hahy — little Elizabeth, aged then about eighteen 
months. She had always been one of the best children 
imaginable, seldom crying, and always going promptly 
to sleep when she was placed in her crib. But now she 
would wake up in the night-time cooing and laughing 
just as she was wont to do when I bent over her cra- 
dle in the morning and played with her. Dick would 
sometimes wake up too, and he would arise and talk 
to her, and sit by her crib until she went to sleep again. 
Dick used to call it “playing with the angels,” and 
indeed it did seem as if there was an unseen presence 
in the room — unseen by all but the baby. It was the 
same in the day-time. She would creep around after 
an imaginary object, or sit upon the floor laughing as 
she did when I built block-houses for her to knock 
down, or made funny faces for her amusement. Still 
she continued in perfect health, so these tricks of hers 
did not alarm us. 

Such was the state of our affairs when Maud Mallory 
came to visit us in response to my invitation. Maud 
was about my own age — I think I was the elder by 
some seven months — and we had been room-mates at 
school , and she had been a bridesmaid at my "wedding ; 
but of late years I had not seen much of her, though 
we had corresponded pretty regularly. 

Lovely as she was in face and figure, beautiful as 
her soft blue eyes were to look into, Maud was never- 
theless blind. 

Some sickness which she had had when about fourteen 
years old — 1 believe it was scarlet fever, but it may 
have been something else — had deprived her of sight ; 
but one looking at her would never have known that 
she could not see, for let her once become familiar with 


MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 


175 


<c 


a place and she would move around in it without the 
slightest hesitation. Her sense of touch and her sense 
of hearing had become wonderfully acute, and she could 
hear and feel in a way that seemed to me almost mirac- 
ulous. 

Naturally enough we had plenty to tell each other, 
and besides I had to show her over the house and 
point out all our alterations, repairs and improve- 
ments. It was impossible that at such times there 
should be no reference to the reports which were afloat 
concerning our dwelling ; but Maud laughed as we 
did at the idea of the old house being haunted and de- 
clared that she would much prefer to meet a real ghost 
than a live mouse. 

It was on the very day after her arrival that my 
husband, going into the library, found her carefully 
examining the book shelves on one side of the room. 
Supposing, naturally enough that she was looking for 
a book, he asked her if she was searching for any vol- 
ume in particular. 

“No,” she answered, “ but I was trying to find the 
second door to the room.” 

“ But there is no second door,” said my husband. 

“ Oh, but there must be,” said Maud, “because the 
gentleman who was here yesterday afternoon when I 
came in, went out by this door.” 

“ Well,” answered my husband laughing, “he must 
have gone through the wall then, for there is no door 
there, and that is an outside wall, and the door would 
show on the other side, even if it were masked on this, 
by the book-shelves. He might have gone out by 
that French window which opens on the piazza.” 

Maud said nothing more at the time and the inci- 
dent might have been forgotten if my husband had 
not laughed at her about it that day at dinner, and 
told it to me as a good joke. She herself joined in the 
laugh about it, though she confessed that she had been 
so positive that there must be a door there, that she 
had gone outside and felt of the wall, to make sure 
that Dick was not fooling her. 

“Mary,” said I, to the servant who was waiting 
upon the table, “ who was it called yesterday after- 
noon ?” 


176 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


4 ‘ Sure, no one called yesterday, mum,” she answer- 
ed, 44 except ould Mrs. Hickey, the dressmaker.” 

44 But, Miss Mallory met a gentleman in the parlor,” 
I said. 

44 Then he must have come in without ringing, mum, 
for sorra a time did I go to the door except to let in 
ould Mrs. Hickey.” 

44 Perhaps Maud met a tramp,” said my husband, 
mockingly. 

44 No !” Maud insisted. 44 He seemed to be a gentle- 
man.” 

Then the subject was allowed to drop. But a few 
days later, Maud met me in the hall as I came in from 
a walk. 

44 You have missed a visitor,” she said, “ but I re- 
ceived him in your stead and had a most pleasant 
chat with him.” 

44 Indeed !” I answered. 44 Who was it ?” 

44 Mr. Holbrooke.” 

44 Holbrooke ! I don’t know anyone by that name.” 

44 Well, that’s the name he gave me, and he must 
have known you for some time, for he spoke of the 
changes you have made in this house, and how much 
more pleasant it was since you have moved in.” 

44 Perhaps it is some friend of Dick’s,” I said, 
44 though I thought I knew the names of everybody 
in the village.” 

44 And oh !” she exclaimed, 44 1 forgot to tell you he 
is the same gentleman who was here the other day, 
and whom I met in the library.” 

44 Did he go through the wall this time?” I asked 
with a smile. 

44 No, ’’she answered, laughingly, “this time the 
glass doors leading out upon the piazza were open, and 
he went out through them, just before you came.” 

We agreed to ask Dick about it when he got home, 
and then we went upstairs to examine my purchases, 
for I had been shopping ; but unfortunately we forgot, 
and when Dick came home never thought to ask him 
about it, and the matter went clear out of our minds 
for a day or two. 

Several afternoons later — I had let the servants go out 
for the afternoon, and the children were not home, — 


“\MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 177 

Maud and I were alone in the house, when I remember- 
ed that I wanted to match some worsted for a scarf that 
I was knitting* for Dick. It would have to be matched 
while there was yet daylight to see by and as there was 
nobody to send on the errand, I would have to do it 
myself. So leaving Maud in charge of the house, I put 
on my bonnet, and went down to the village. 

I was detained longer than I expected and as I 
hurried back, I met Dick returning from his work. 
We walked home together and met Maud at the door. 

“Dick has just been telling me, ” said I, “that it 
was very rude in me to leave my guest alone, so now 
I publicly beg your pardon.” 

She laughed as she answered, “Indeed, I did not miss 
you, for Mr. Holbrooke called again and the time 
passed very rapidly.” 

“ Oh Dick !” I exclaimed, turning to my husband. 
“ Who is Mr. Holbrooke ?” 

“ Is it a conundrum ?” he said. “If it is, I give it 
up.” 

“ Pshaw, no !” I answered. “ He is a gentleman 
who has called here twice before.” 

“ 1 used to go to school with a fellow named Hol- 
brooke,” said Dick, “ and he is the only person of that 
name that I ever knew.” 

“ Then it must be he,” I exclaimed. 

“ If it is, I don’t know what he is doing here,” Dick 
continued, “ the last time I heard of him he was in 
Europe. He was a short, fat, dumpy little fellow.” 

“Then this is not he,” said Maud, “for this Mr. 
Holbrooke is tall and rather slim. He is the same 
gentleman that I met in the library, the day after I 
arrived here,” she added mischievously, addressing 
Dick. 

“ The one who went through the wall ?” he said. 

Maud nodded her head and laughed. 

“ I wonder who it can be ?” I remarked. 

“ I don't know anyone in the village by that name,” 
Dick answered. 

“ But he said he knew you. Didn’t he?” I said ap- 
pealing to Maud. 

“ I think he said he knew you both,” she replied, 
“ but whoever he may be I am sure of one thing about 


178 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


him, and that is, that he is the most charming con- 
versationalist that I ever met.” 

We could not find out who Mr. Holbrooke was and 
shortly afterwards Maud went away promising to re- 
peat her visit before long. 

We often wondered who the mysterious visitor could 
have been, but we never heard of his calling again, 
and as the “ viewless footsteps ” continued to tramp 
over the house despite the cats and rat-poison, the 
fact of the house being haunted got to be a joke with 
us, and we fell into the way of calling the ghost, ‘‘Mr. 
Holbrooke.” Hot that we ever seriously admitted that 
there was a ghost — oh no ! We put all the noises down 
to the rats, and Dick, to spur on the rising generation 
to the assistance of the cats, followed the example of 
his Puritan ancestors, and proclaimed a bounty of 
five cents on each rat caught, the tail to be exhibited 
and delivered in evidence. 

We had grown so used to hear the children call a 
rat, “ Mr. Holbrooke,” that we had almost ceased to 
remark its use as a nickname ; but when Maud came 
to see us again, after a year’s absence, she was sur- 
prised when one of the children entered the room where 
we were breakfasting, and with something strange in 
his hand exclaimed: 

“Pa, here’s a Mr. Holbrooke’s tail an’ I want five 
cents.” 

Dick who had risen somewhat cross that morning, 
answered rather severely, “you shall have the five 
cents, Bob,” he was our third son named Robert after 
my father, “you shall have the five cents, Bob, but 
you ought to know better than to bring such a thing 
as that into the room while we are at breakfast.” 

Although I must say, that I think that Dick might 
have spoken more amiably, yet Bob ought to have 
known better, and I am afraid that he spoiled Maud’s 
breakfast, for I noticed that she ate very little after- 
wards. 

However that may be, she looked up with surprise 
and said, “ What is it, Bob ?” 

“Mr. Holbrooke’s tail,” he answered. 

“ What ?” she exclaimed. 

Of course we had then to tell her the whole story 


179 


U MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 

of the nickname, at which she laughed, though I 
thought not quite as heartily as she might have done. 

“But did you never find out who Mr. Holbrooke 
was ?” she asked. 

“Never,” I answered. 

“ I made some inquiries in the village,” said Dick, 
“but nobody knew anything about him.” 

“ Well,” said Maud, “ I only know that he was the 
most interesting man I ever met.” 

That evening there was a concert at the town-hall, 
and we had counted on Maud’s going with us to it, but 
when the time came, she had a slight headache, and 
Dick and the children went off by ourselves, leaving 
her alone in the house. I offered to stay with her but 
she scorned the idea, and said she would amuse her- 
self until we got back. 

The concert was over about half-past nine, and when 
we got home we found Maud sitting up for us. 

Now it was my custom to go up with Maud to her 
room, when she retired for the night, and talk over the 
events of the day with her, and this night was no 
exception. 

“Helen,” said Maud to me as we were sitting in 
front of the fire in her room, — I do not think I have told 
you my name before, but it is Helen — “Helen, Mr. 
Holbrooke called to-night.” 

“ Mr. Holbrooke !” I exclaimed. “You mean that 
you heard a rat?” 

“ No, I mean the real Mr. Holbrooke. He was in the 
library when I went in there after you had gone, and 
he went away just before you came home.” 

“ There is something extraordinary about him,” I 
remarked, “ that he should always come when we are 
away and leave jusl} before we return, and that you 
should be the only one to see him.” 

“I asked him to night,” said Maud, “ who he was. 
But he only said that he was an old friend of yours 
and Dick’s. I do not think that I should have contin- 
ued to talk to him,” she added after a short pause, 
“ if it had not been that his whole manner was that of 
a gentleman, and besides, I did not like to ask him 
to leave the house nor did I wish to leave him 
alone.” 


180 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


‘ ‘ I have never thought to ask you what he looks 
like. Describe him to me.” 

She sat silent for a moment, with a fan raised between 
her face and the glow of the fire, and her small slip- 
pered foot beat lightly upon the brass fender. I 
thought as I looked at her that I had never seen her 
look so beautiful, and I wondered why she had never 
fallen in love. She was an heiress, and such always 
receive plenty of offers, even though they may not be 
as pretty as Maud was. 

She spoke at last, saying slowly and meditatively, 
“ I can scarcely describe him. He is tall, for I 
remember that he reached down a book from a high 
shelf without mounting the ladder, and he trod like a 
man of medium weight. His voice I remember partic- 
ularly. It is low and sad, but wonderfully sweet and 
clear, and distinct. I recall now that while he was 
speaking I noticed the sound of dead leaves rustling 
about the piazza and the soughing of the wind through 
the branches of the trees ; I noticed these sounds be- 
cause they seemed to be so strangely in harmony with 
the tone of his voice, blending with it, as it were, and 
yet not drowning it, for I would hear each word that 
he said. 

“ There is something misty and uncertain about my 
recollection of him — of all except his voice. I remem- 
ber that clearly — so clearty, indeed, that I seem to hear 
it now.” 

Strange ! Just as Maud said this I had that kind of 
uncomfortable, intuitive feeling that somebody else, or 
something strange was in the room, and her words 
startled me not a little. It was, of course, only imag- 
ination. 

“ I really think that we ought to tell Dick about it,” 
I said, and I looked at Maud as I spoke. There was 
something in her appearance, some expression of. her 
countenance as seen in the flickering fire-light, that 
caused me to exclaim hastily : “ Maud, I believe you 
really like him ! ” 

She blushed, but said nothing. 

“ It is the most astonishing thing I ever heard of,” 
I exclaimed. “ You are the last person in the world of 
whom I should expect such a thing — you who always 


MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 


181 


insist on knowing people’s antecedents before you will 
be more than barely polite to them— to fall in love 
with a stranger about whom you know nothing !” 

“ Oh,” she answered quickly, ‘‘I’m not by any 
means in love with him, but he is really the most inter- 
esting man I ever met. You and I, Helen,” she con- 
tinued, giving a fond turn of her head in my direction, 
“used to have no secrets from each other when we 
were schoolmates together, so I do not mind telling 
you as much as this — that he is the most fascinating 
conversationalist that I have ever listened to — and I 
don’t see how he can be such an entire stranger, for he 
knew about Dick’s books, and when he wanted to refer 
to something in one of them he went right to the place 
where it was upon the shelf. I fancy that even you, 
sober-minded, matter-of-fact Helen, would be entranced 
by the low, sweet tones of his voice, and would some- 
times wonder, as I have, whether anyone really was 
talking, or whether 1 heard only dream voices in my 
heart.” 

“ Well,” I thought to myself after I left Maud, “ it’s 
the most extraordinary thing I ever heard of and 
when I told Dick about such parts of it as I could, 
without betraying confidences, he thought so too. 

“ But whoever it is,” he said, “ I do not like the idea 
of people coming into the house without any of the 
family seeing them, and the next time we go out, I will 
have the house watched.” 

“ Are you sure that all the windows and outer doors 
are locked to-night ?” I queried, “ for perhaps Mr. 
Holbrooke might come back while we are asleep, and 
though we have not much to steal, he might carry off 
the spoons and forks, and perhaps, some of the books.” 

“Yes, I locked the front door and fastened the blinds 
and windows before 1 came up stairs,” Dick said ; “ and 
that reminds me : I wish you would tell the children 
that when they take books from the shelves, they 
must put them back in their places, and not leave them 
on the desk as they have been doing lately. I had to 
put up two or three to-night.” 

“ I will speak to them in the morning,” I replied. 
“1 am astonished that they should do so after the 
number of times that they have been told not to.” 


182 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


The house came very nearly burning down that night. 
Dick and I were both asleep, when we were aroused by 
a knocking on the door. We were both awake imme- 
diately. 

“ Who’s there ?” Dick called out. 

There was no answer, and Dick jumped out of bed 
and opened the door. No one was there, but there 
was a very distinct odor of something burning. 

“ There isn’t anyone here,” he exclaimed, “but there 
is something a-fire somewhere. Don’t you smell it?” 

I did smell it, — so very distinctly, indeed, that I was 
up before he had finished speaking, and while he has- 
tily slipped on his dressing-gown and slippers, I lighted 
a candle, which he took and went down stairs. I fol- 
lowed him as soon as I could. 

We soon found out what had happened; a coal had 
snapped out of the library fire, upon the rug, and was 
burning- a hole through it and into the floor. A couple 
of pitchers of water readily extinguished it, but if we 
had not discovered it when we did, it would have spread 
until the whole house had become a-fire. 

The rug was spoilt, however, and I told Dick that he 
had been very careless in forgetting to put the fender 
up before going to bed. 

“ But I did put it up,” he said, “ and besides that, 1 
shut the door behind me, and it was open when I came 
downstairs; and more than that,” he continued, “be- 
fore I left, I put all the books that were on my desk, 
back onto the shelves, and yet there is one there noAv, 
opened.” 

1 looked in the direction in which he pointed, and saw 
a book, opened and turned face upward. It always 
made Dick angry to find books left in that way, and 
the children had been carefully brought up never to 
leave them so. 

“ Some one was here reading,” said Dick, “when they 
saw the fire and came and knocked at our door.” 

“Who could it have been,” I remarked, “and why 
did they not put the fire out ?” 

“ Those are two questions that will have to be an- 
swered to-morrow,” Dick replied, as he shut the book 
and put it back into the book-case. “One of the chil- 
dren or the servants, I suppose, or perhaps Maud.” 


“ MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 183 

“ Maud would not have been reading*, and surely 
she would have put the fire out/’ I said, “ but possi- 
bly one of the children or the servants might have 
been frightened and run away after waking us.” 

As we passed Maud’s room on our way back, her 
door opened and she put her head out, asking : 

“ What's the matter ?” 

We told her. 

“I haven’t been downstairs,” she said, “I was 
fast asleep when some one knocked at my door ; and 
when I came out, I heard you going downstairs, smelt 
the fire, and supposed you had knocked.” 

“ Well,” said Dick, “I’ve locked the library door 
and got the key in my pocket, and' whoever it was, he 
can’t repeat the freak to-night.” 

But the next day, although we questioned the ser- 
vants about it, they all denied having been there. So 
the matter remained a mystery. 

The night before Maud left she said to me : 

“ Helen, I met Mr. Holbrooke again to-day and he 
behaved very queerly ; and his conduct was so differ- 
ent from what it had been before. He talked strangely 
about spiritual life : but he grew very strange when 
he begged me not to go away yet. ” 

“ You know,” I interrupted, “ that we all wish you 
to stay.” 

“ I know that,” she said, “ but, of course, I must go 
home some time . But it seemed to me as if Mr. Hol- 
brooke had some special reason for wishing me not to 
go ; as if he wished to warn me that some harm would 
follow if I went. And yet what he said, though very 
passionate and earnest, was vague and indefinite. 
Then suddenly he rose and went away, and almost 
immediately one of the children came in.” 

4 4 It is very strange,” said I, “ but what with him, 
and the fire, and Dick’s books being left about by 
nobody, and the way the rats run over the house, I 
confess I have almost given up wondering.” 

Maud left us the next day promising to come back 
soon, but alas, before nightfall, there came rumors of 
a terrible railroad accident, and before we slept we 
knew that the train she was in had been derailed and 
thrown down an embankment, and that Maud was 


184 : 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


among- the killed. We grieved deeply for her, for we 
all loved her very much. 

It was about a month after her sad death that I 
was sitting in the parlor, and, wishing to look up a 
quotation from Wordsworth, asked Boh to go out into 
the library and bring me the book. He went like an 
obedient child, and when he came back he remarked, 
as he handed me the volume, “ IBs all spotted.” 

I confess that I did not pay much attention to his 
remark (though I remembered it afterwards), especi- 
ally as when I took the book I noticed no spots upon 
its pages. But before retiring, the children having 
gone off to bed, I asked Dick to put the book back in 
its place. He took it into the library, but in a few 
minutes returned again with it in his hands, remark- 
ing as he entered the room : 

“ Helen, do you know how this book was spotted ?” 

“ I did not notice any spots on it,” I replied; and 
then, remembering, I added, “ though I believe Bob 
said something of the sort when he brought it to 
me.” 

As I spoke I reached out my hand for the book, 
took it and opened it — as far as I could see the pages 
were as clean as ever. 

“ I don’t see any spots,” I said. 

“ That’s the funny part of it,” said Dick. “ I could 
see them in the library where it was dark, but when I 
brought it into the light of the hall lamp the spots 
disappeared. If you go into the library you will see 
them. ’ ’ 

I went into the library and sure enough I saw, 
sprinkled as it were upon the page, minute dots of 
faint, flickering, pulsating light. They were very 
small — hardly larger than holes made with the point 
of a needle, and seemed to fade away as they were 
brought to the light. We turned over another page, 
and found that it, too, was stained in the same man- 
ner ; in fact, most of the book seemed to be thus 
marked. 

“ 1 do not know what to make of it,” said Dick. “ I 
never heard before of a book being ‘ foxed ’ in that 
manner !” 

“ Perhaps it is something in the paper ?” I said. 


“MR. HOLBROOKE BY ARTHUR EROLT.” 185 

“ It would be interesting* to find out,” Dick answer- 
ed — anything* connected with book-lore interests him 
— “ but I don’t see how we can. We can’t see the 
paper in the dark, and we can’t see the spots in the 
light.” 

“ Suppose you mark the spots and then take the 
book back into the other room,” I suggested. 

“ The very thing !” he exclaimed, taking the 
book and marking part of a page with his pencil. 
Then he took the book into the parlor, but though 
we held the paper up to the light and looked at it in 
every possible way, we could not discover that its 
texture was not uniform throughout. 

“ There is another queer thing about it,” said Dick, 
at last,- “ it is not stained in the random, blotchy way 
that book-men called ‘ foxed ’ but every dot seemed to 
be placed beneath a letter, thus he continued read- 
ing, “ ‘ n-e-v-e-r — ’ ” 

“Why that spells ‘ never ’ !” I exclaimed inter- 
rupting him. 

We glanced at each other with looks of strange sur- 
prise. After a few minutes’ pause in which no word 
was spoken, he began to read again ; 

“ ‘N-e-v-e-r-m-o-r-e-c-a-n-i-d-i-s.’ ” 

“ ‘ Never more can I dis — ’ ” I repeated. 

“ I have marked no more,” said Dick, “ but surely, 
Helen, this book contains a message or confession of 
some kind ; perhaps from its former owner !” 

“ Go and mark more,” I exclaimed. “ Let us see 
if there is a beginning or an end. Begin at the first 
page and mark on toward the back.” 

Dick went out of the room and I was left alone. I 
heard the library door close behind him. It seemed a 
long*, long time before he came back, and once or 
twice in my impatience I half started to go to him. 

At last he returned. 

“ I have marked the first ten pages,” he said,” that 
will be enough for this evening as we cannot read the 
whole book through in one night.” 

I took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and wrote as 
my husband read. 

Alas ! How little we had anticipated what followed, 
for this is what I wrote : 


186 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ My dear Helen and Dick : I, your old friend 
Maud, am permitted for this once to communicate 
with you. Only this once ; and perhaps my attempt 
will fail, and you Avill not receive this message ; but 
Mr. Holbrooke, who is by my side, has advised me to 
make use of this volume which he says you most 
frequently use. In this state in which we both now 
are, he has been for a long while past, and he has 
lived here in this house for many years, hearing and 
seeing and loving you all, and often trying to com- 
municate with you, even as I do now. He it was that 
left those books about, each with a message to you 
that you never saw. He it was that caused the coal 
to leap from the fire that you might find the book that 
he had marked, open in the dark. I pray that I may 
not fail now, as he has failed before. To-night he and 
I go hence, but ere I go I leave this message for you, 
for there will come a time when ” 

The pages which Dick had marked were finished, 
and as he read the last letter I laid down my head 
upon the table and burst into a tempest of sobs. 

“ Helen! Dear Helen !” exclaimed Dick, coming to 
my side, “ I was wrong to allow you to transcribe 
such a message. Be strong, Helen ! Be strong !” 

Gradually I sobbed less violently, and as 1 grew 
more quiet, I exclaimed : “ Go, mark more, and let 

us hear all of this strange message from behind the 
gates of Death !” 

“ Not to-night, dear,” Dick answered firmly, “to- 
morrow when a new day has dawned, and you are 
stronger — but not to-night.” 

I sobbed myself to sleep, and Dick did not leave me. 
Once or twice during the night, I awoke crying like a 
frightened child, but each time he soothed me to sleep 
again. 

But on the morrow, when we tried to read the book 
again, the faint, tremulous, glowing spots had faded 
away, and though we darkened the room — and though 
when night fell again — we tried to find them once 
more, they were gone — never to return. How 
long the 3 r had been there — how soon after they were 
written we had seen them, we never knew. They were 
gone ! 


man’s ingratitude. 


187 


Oh, fatal weakness o\ my heart, surcharged with 
awe and grief ! But for it the whole of that strange 
message from the spirit-world might have been ours. 
If we could only have known that then and then only , 
could that message he- delivered and received ! But 
now, not until our spirits flee from their frail tene- 
ments of clay can we.hear the rest of that weird, lov- 
ing message. 

But while I live I shall treasure beyond all earthly 
prices that one small book and those sheets of paper, 
whereon I wrote those few — too few — fond words. 

We never told the children, and as the noise around 
the house ceased after that memorable night, they'soon 
forgot about them. Dick and I have often wondered 
what the sounds were. 

Wliat was it that Maud had seen and talked with 
— whose voice was so low and clear that she had 
sometimes thought it only an echo in her heart? 
What was it that had appeared to her, and her only, 
and, at the last, striven to give her 'warning of her 
coming death ? 

Who — what — was Mr. Holbrooke? 


CHAPTER XXII. 
man’s ingratitude. 

When Erolt had polished and prepared this tale, he 
confided it to the post, directed to the Carpers, and 
prepared to wait with what resignation he could sum- 
mon, until he should learn its fate. 

But ere that day came his funds ran lower and 
lower, until he found himself with his last -dollar in 
his pocket. It was necessary that something should 
be done or he would starve. 

In those days, which, as he looked bacl^upon them 
now, he mentally designated the days of his prosper- 
ity, he had loaned small sums of money to needy 
friends. Now ? in his own poverty, he recalled this 


188 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


circumstance, and looked up the promissory notes which 
they had given him on those occasions. These notes 
he found among* his papers, and, taking them out, he 
determined to hunt up their makers, and see if he 
could not get them to pay something, at least, upon 
them. Ere he departed on this errand, he glanced 
over the manuscripts which his pen had written dur- 
ing the past. There Avas quite a pile of them, not- 
withstanding the fact that nearly all the periodicals 
of which he could hear had at that time some story of 
his for their decision, but he remembered that the 
Independent had no tale of his just then, and he de- 
termined to leave a manuscript at the office as he 
passed by. So he folded up one that he thought 
might meet the approval of that journal, and started 
upon his dunning tour. 

For weeks past he had kept closely confined to the 
house, studiously writing, and had not been down 
town all that time. But now, as he passed through 
the familiar streets of the lower part of the city and 
mingled with the hurrying crowd, all intent upon 
business, as he had once been, he felt like a man who 
revisits his old home, and finds it peopled with strang- 
ers. In all the passing crowds there was not one 
person who knew him. He saw faces that he remem- 
bered, but they either passed him by without recogni- 
tion, or looked curiously and coldly at him, as if to 
wonder at his reappearance. 

He left his manuscript at the office of the Independ- 
ent, and then wended liis way to Rui street, where he 
knew that Roderick Black, a man whom he had once 
befriended, had his office. He found the place, 
mounted the stairs and entered the man’s office. 
Black looked up from his writing desk, and, seeing 
who his visitor was, rose and greeted him with ap- 
parent cordiality. But when Erolt stated his errand, 
liis debtor’s manner changed. 

“ Indeed,” he said, “ 1 have not the money to take 
that note up now, but next week I hope to have some, 
and I will try to pay it then.” 

“ But I do not ask you for all of it,” Arthur replied, 
“ if you could let me have part — even if it is only a 
few dollars — I should be glad,” 


man’s ingratitude. 


189 


“My dear sir,” Black said, putting* his hand into 
his vest pocket and pulling out a few loose coins, per- 
haps amounting in all to a half a dollar, “that is all 
the money that I have.” He selected two ten-cent 
pieces and laid them on the desk, continuing: “That 
is all that I can spare. If you will take them, you are 
welcome.” 

Erolt felt insulted by the man’s action. 

“ No !” he said ; “ I came to get this note paid, not 
to receive a pittance of twenty cents !” 

“ Well, it is the best I can do for you now,” Black 
said coolly, as he put the coin back into his pocket ; 
“ the best I can do for you until next week. You will 
have to wait until next week.” 

“ If you only knew how badly I needed this money, 
you would get it for me,” Erolt pleaded. “ I cannot 
carry this loan any longer. It is but a few dollars 
which I really need , and you might get some of your 
friends to lend }mu the amount necessary to pay me.” 

“ If you do not want to wait, you can sue me for 
it,” Black rejoined carelessly. “ I have told you I 
will try to pay it next week, and that is all I can do. 
I have an appointment to keep ; you must excuse me 
now.” 

With a heavy, indignant heart, Erolt wended his 
way to Front street, but his debtor, who had an office 
there, was out, and no one knew when he would re- 
turn. So Erolt went, from one to another, until it 
was five o’clock, and most of the offices were closed. 

He was tired and heavy-hearted as he turned to go 
uptown, but he felt that he was too poor to spend 
five cents for fare in a horse-car, and that he must 
walk. He felt faint and weak, for he had had nothing 
to eat that day, thinking that when he received his 
money from his creditors he would buy a lunch. But 
as he had received no money, he got no lunch. 

Upon Third avenue near Fourteenth street, he 
knew that there was a restaurant where a regular 
dinner was given for the small price of twenty-five 
cents. He made up his mind that he would stop there 
and dine. 

It was about this time that the case of Randolph 
and Erolt was set for trial. Erolt looked confidently 


190 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


forward to that event. Knowing* that he was inno- 
cent he confidently expected a verdict, which would 
free him from all blame, and he felt that once more a 
free man, with his innocence established, he could face 
the world better and more bravely. But when the 
day of trial came the United States district attorney 
rose and announced that he could do nothing but en- 
ter a nolle prosequi, and so Randolph and Erolt 
were discharged. 

Somes Temple was in the court-room, when the 
Judge made this announcement, and seizing Erolt by 
the hand he warmly exclaimed : 

“ Erolt, let me congratulate you ! Now will you let 
me help you ?” 

Erolt smiled sadly upon him as he answered, “ No, 
Somes. I must fight my battle alone. ” 

“ Nonsense,” Somes cried, “You must at least let 
me lend you enough to live on until you get a fresh 
start. You can pay it back when you get rich.” 

“I thank you, Somes,” Erolt replied, “perhaps 
some day I may call upon you to do so.” 

When Arthur Erolt walked from the court-house 
after his dismissal his thoughts were very bitter. The 
assurance of his own innocence and integrity, and the 
hope that a fair trial would proclaim that innocence 
to the world had buoyed him up during the long 
months of waiting. But now that there was to be no 
trial — now that a nolle prosequi had been entered be- 
cause the detectives had failed to find new evidence, 
he felt that he had not been fully cleared of the foul 
accusation, so wrongfully cast upon him. As he 
thought over his wrongs that night in the darkness 
and solitude of his garret room, he wondered what 
was left for him to live for. Father and mother were 
both dead. Love could not abide with poverty. 

His friends ! Ah, his few friends that had stuck to 
him after his father’s death, had been driven away by 
his misfortune. No ! Not all ! Somes Temple remain- 
ed, and at the thought of him a smile came over 
Erolt’s face, a smile of love and gratitude that for a 
moment glorified it. 

“Ah, Somes — Somes!” he sighed, “ surely our 
Saviour must have been such a man as you— ever 


MAN^S INGRATITUDE. 


191 


ready to lend a helping hand to those in trouble. To 
requite your kindness is the one sole hope of my life 
now. Your friendship is the one sole thing that makes 
life worth living.” 

And the man whose eyes had been dry when the 
love of his life had been blighted, shed tears of grati- 
tude as he thought of his friend. 

“ Somes,” he cried, and stretched out his arms with 
a gesture of infinite gratitude. “ Somes, oh, Somes! 
Would that I might lay down my life for you !” 

During the following days, Erolt looked in vain for 
a favorable answer to one of his stories, but. none 
came. The mail, indeed, brought him a letter, but it 
was only a returned manuscript with the printed slip 
refusing it. Again, therefore, he turned his foot- 
steps downtown, and again returned without having 
collected a cent. Two more days passed and the 
dollar had melted away into nothingness. 

What could he do now ? Nothing but pawn some- 
thing that he had, or else borrow. He shrank from 
doing either, and passed one day without eating. But 
his pride must yield to hunger. He could not borrow, 
therefore he must pawn. 

One by one the few articles that he still owned were 
left in the jaws of those devouring monsters who 
thrive beneath the three golden balls, for Erolt had 
thus to raise money to pay his room-rent as well as 
for the modest sum which he spent for food. Twenty- 
five cents — one meal— a day was all that he allowed 
himself for the latter purpose. Yet still he continu- 
ed bravely at his literary work, though ill-fortune still 
pursued him, and he sold never a manuscript. Some- 
times he thought of borrowing. He knew Somes 
would gladly lend him enough to live upon ; he 
thought that even Randolph, poor as he was, would 
let him have a little money. Yet he shrank from 
asking a loan from them because he could not see his 
way clear to repay it. 

Yes, that was the real reason for his failure to 
borrow money which Somes would gladly have lent to 
him — he had lost hope. It seemed to him that he 
would be doing wrong to his friend to borrow what he 
could never repay. He loved Somes too well to wrong 


192 THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 

him thus. Besides, such loans would have seemed to 
him to be gifts, and he was too proud to beg. At 
length when he found himself reduced to sore 
straits, he determined to seek for work, however 
humble. He went around to his former friends and 
asked for employment. Some dismissed him curtly, 
some promised to think about it, none gave him a po- 
sition, nor did he ever hear from them again about his 
application. He did not go to Somes ; some strange 
(foolish, if you choose to call it so) pride kept him 
from asking aid of the very man who would have 
aided him. 

Erol^t’s judgment was, in truth, gradually being 
stunned by the successive blows of misfortune. They 
had fallen so thickly and heavily upon him that the 
strength which at first had upheld him against them, 
was giving way. He had no counsellor to cheer and 
comfort him. His was not a nature which could will- 
ingly unburden its woes to others. When he suffered 
he must suffer alone. He must shut his own grief in 
his heart, and there in silence let it eat out his life. 
Happier far would he have been had he possessed a 
temperament which would have let him share his 
sorrows with a friend ; happier far, could he but have 
invoked the sympathy of true friendship. But men 
cannot go against their nature, and this trait of 
Erolt’s, — this trait of hiding one’s sorrow in one’s own 
heart, — this trait of suffering silently and alone, was 
one which he had inherited from a long line of 
ancestors and was interwoven and intertwined with 
his very being. 

Sad and much to be^pitied are such men. Sad and 
much to be pitied was Arthur Erolt. He was young, 
ready, willing, yes eager, to work, and yet he was 
gradually starving. What could he do, he could not 
dig, he was ashamed to beg. There was no chance of 
his starting anew in life. The future seemed darker 
as the days passed by. The broken heart was bleed- 
ing slowly to death, under the load of misfortune 
heaped upon it. For him the world had no kindly 
glance, no sweet compassion. Relentlessly and cruelly 
it hustled him to one side, for he was poor, and poverty 
is the one crime which the world never pardons. 




man’s ingratitude. 


193 


Where do the poor of our city live ? Not in humble 
cottages, surrounded by green meadows, and with 
shady lanes running past their doors, but in high, 
brick tenements fronting on dirty streets, in blocks of 
noisome, pestilential houses — squalor and filth all 
about. 

Who would have thought that a man of Arthur 
Erolt’s nature, a man of his blamelessness of life, of 
his lineage, of his purity of character, could ever have 
descended so low ! And yet it was these very traits 
that now fought against him, in his sore struggle 
with the world. I f he had but consented to throw 
them aside, and be dishonest, his purse would have 
been well-filled, his name would have been widely 
known, and his home would have been where those 
rich in the world’s goods live. 

Where would God live if he came to earth to-da}^? 
Notin the brown-storie mansions on Fifth Avenue ; not 
in the lordly homes that dot the shores of Long Island 
Sound, or the dainty cottages that lie so peacefully 
around country towns ; but amid the misery of the 
tenement-house, amid the poor and the outcast, amid 
the starvelings and the criminals ; for God himself 
would have been guilty of the great crime of Poverty 
— and the world would have punished Him even as it 
punished Arthur Erolt. 

In vain did Arthur Erolt strive to mend his circum- 
stances. Though he was willing to work he could get 
no work to do. Naturally not robust, the months of 
privation which he had undergone had weakened his 
frame so that he could not even get work as a laborer 
to sweep the streets. The original room which he had 
hired had soon proved too expensive for him, and he 
had left it and taken another less comfortably furnish- 
ed, but oh, so much cheaper. The rent of that was in 
turn more than he could afford, and he left it to take 
one cheaper still. And so month after month he went 
from one place to another, leaving the homes of the 
rich further and further away, and coming nearer and 
nearer to the precincts of the very poor. He had not 
cared how meagre the. furnishing of his room might 
be— a bed, a chair and a table was all he asked — pro- 
vided the house was clean and kept clean and neat. 


194 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


But at last cleanliness and neatness were luxuries 
which he could no longer afford. His own room he 
could at least make as neat as possible, hut the condi- 
tion of the rest of the house where he lived was beyond 
his choice. 

From place to place he moved, ever going to some 
cheaper room until, at last, he found himself in a nar- 
row, dilapidated tenement, one of a long row of similar 
buildings, surrounded by a population of noisy men 
and dirty women ; and swarming with dirtier, noisier 
children. His room was high up under the roof. The 
clothes upon the bed were little more than rags, the 
boards of the bare floor were rough and uneven ; but 
the room cost but twenty-five cents a week, and that 
was all that he could afford to pay. 

In such a place Arthur Erolt lived and prayed and 
struggled. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE FUGITIVES. 

We left Lillian and Foerster in the car bound for 
Canada, that refuge of absconding cashiers. Truly 
Father Time has turned the tables upon England. 
She tried to settle this country with prisoners from her 
jails, now we send her back our defaulting cashiers. 
The fertile soil of our land welcomed the former with 
smiles, and transformed their descendants into noble 
men and women. England receives our criminals with 
open arms and gives them a safe shelter under her 
bloody flag. What she will do for their descendants 
remains to be seen. 

Fit symbol of England as she is to-day is that red 
flag. Its hue of blood, is but a symbol of the many 
drops of life-bloo4 which she has spilt unjustly, blood- 
drops of the Hindoo bravely laying down his life to 
save his country from her unjust rule, blood-drops of 
the Irish patriot crushed to death by her relentless 
tyranny ; and the stripes upon it are, like the bars 
sinister of heraldry, the emblems of her shame. Yet, 
thanks to God, she totters now upon the verge of ruin, 


THE FUGITIVES. 


195 


and millions of expectant hearts look joyfully for- 
ward to that happy day when they shall see her down- 
fall. 

Towards the shelter of this bloody flag* John Foer- 
ster was whirled away on the midnight train. Not a 
qualm of conscience disturbed his sleep, not a dream 
of aught disagreeable haunted his slumbers. He 
slept as calmly and quietly as if he were an innocent 
child. 

But Lillian’s sleep was disturbed by many a vague 
doubt. She could not help wondering what I^andolph 
would do when he got her note, could not help but 
feel a pang of vain regret as she remembered that she 
had left him without warning when he was sick and 
in trouble. Even the little dog Scrappie had wound 
himself around her heart ; she felt an anxiety to know 
what had become of him, and as she lay awake think- 
ing, she planned many ways in which to regain pos- 
session of him. Such thoughts, however, were unwel- 
come and she tried to drive them away by thinking 
of the wealth which Foerster had promised to share 
with her. Near morning she fell asleep, but her dreams 
were troubled. 

Foerster had laid his plans well. He had been forced 
by the short space of time to abstract the genuine 
bills and replace them with the counterfeits suddenly, 
and had had no opportunity to get rid of all the 
former. Some of these genuine bill he had hasti- 
ly done up into small parcels and concealed in his trunk, 
others he bore upon his person, the remainder he had 
hidden in a secret place. But the great source from 
which he expected his wealth to flow was his specula- 
tion in Wall Street. He had sold the market short to 
an enormous amount. There was scarcely a broker 
who did not hold an order from him, and by thus 
distributing his orders he was not only able to increase 
their totals but to do so without exciting^comment. In 
these transactions he did not appear himself, but acted 
through others. The only risk he ran was that these 
confidential agents Aright not account to him for the 
proceeds of the speculation. This was a risk which he 
saw no Avay to avoid and he had to take it, but the 
confidential friend — the man whom he trusted implicit- 


196 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Iy — the man, indeed, who, equally with himself had 
engineered or suggested the transaction — was Douglas 
Egerton. As there is honor among thieves so these 
two confederates trusted each other — how wisely, time 
will show. 

The confederates had had plenty of time to arrange 
these matters and had prepared them slowly and 
cautiously. The} 7 knew that if they should succeed in 
their contemplated fraud on the bank they would also 
succeed with their speculations, for the failure of The 
Specie Payment Bank could not but cause a panic on 
“ the Street,” and then — the more stocks fell the rich- 
er they would be. 

It must be confessed that Foerster was not devoid of 
ordinary curiosity, and many times during the day 
after his flight he found himself wondering whether the 
counterfeits had been detected. He thought the 
chances were that the fraud would be found out be- 
fore, but not much before, the close of banking hours. 
He knew that, with a purpose of avoiding detection by 
the paying teller, he had arranged the counterfeits 
laboriously and carefully. That though the bills were of 
large denomina tions necessarily, there were many other 
bills of smaller amounts arranged with them. He had 
been furnished counterfeits also of several denomina- 
tions and carefully had given them a soiled and worn ap- 
pearance. Above all, and in this fact he felt that his 
greatest safety lay, he had but one confederate and 
he was the man that had furnished him with the coun- 
terfeits and who was also a joint partner in his Wall 
Street speculation. 

Besides, he also felt a curiosity to know how the 
ruse of his pretended death had been received. Had it 
been possible he would have set some trusty man in 
hiding near the clothes which he had ordered to be 
left upon the dock ; who might report to him what 
was done with them. But this had not been possible. 
Would the detectives think him dead, and cease their 
search for him ; or would they still come with keen 
scents following in his trail, and forcing him to be 
ever alert and fleeing from them ? 

Traveling in the railroad cars, one has plenty of time 
for thought, and as the day waned, Foerster grew 


THE FUGITIVES. 


197 


more anxious to hear the news. Besides, too, he be- 
gan to grow nervous. As he thought over the 
chances that he would be missed, the fraud discovered, 
and the train he was on telegraphed and searched by 
detectives, his anxiety increased. He was thoroughly 
disguised, and his black beard had been shaven off 
and a red one replaced it. His hair had been cut close 
to his head, and a red wig covered it. His clothes were 
of a character unlike his ordinary apparel, and padded 
so as to alter his shape. Were he traveling alone the 
detectives might pass him by, but would not Lillian 
betray him ? True, she had simply told Randolph 
that she would not return; but when the fraud was 
discovered, would Randolph not immediately connect 
her flight with his own mysterious disappearance and 
inform the detectives of the suspicious coincidence? 

The more Foerster thought over these things the 
greater grew his anxiety. As the train rolled into the 
stations at which it stopped, he peered anxiously out 
of the window and scrutinized those who stood upon 
the platform, in a vain endeavor to discover from their 
appearance whether there were detectives among them 
or whether they showed signs of having heard the 
news from Hew York. 

Not until the train had crossed the boundary line 
and left it and its perils far behind, did he breathe free. 
Then and not till then did he leave the smoking com- 
partment where he had spent the previous hours and 
return to the compartment where Lillian was. She 
was anno3^ed at his long absence, but now that the 
strain of immediate danger was removed from his 
mind, he could pacify her. 

He did not believe that, now, even if he were traced, 
he could be extradited from Canada to New York. 
Practically there was no evidence against him by 
which he could be proved guilty of an extraditable of- 
fense. True, the counterfeits had been placed in the 
safe, but who could prove that lie did it. His posses- 
sion on his person, of large sums of money, might be 
circumstantial evidence ; but he could rid himself of 
that danger immediately on his arrival. His flight 
might be taken as evidence of his guilt; but for this, 
Lillian’s presence furnished him with an excuse. He 


198 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


had fled with her away from Randolph’s wrath. Thus 
he thought that even if he should he traced and ar- 
rested, his incarceration would he but short, and he 
would not be extradited. Nevertheless he had no in- 
tention of being caught if he could help it, and had ar- 
ranged his plans in a manner which he "hoped would 
throw the detectives off the track. 

Arriving at Montreal, Foerster and Lillian drove to 
the largest hotel and registered as McMichael Biddle 
and wife from Philadelphia. It must be remembered 
that the cashier had changed his personal appearance. 
His height was the one thing which he could not 
change. His shape was changed by the padding of 
his clothes. 

He stayed in Montreal only one day and a night, 
just long enough to change a few hundred dollars of 
his notes for gold and to drive about town shopping 
and sight-seeing as ordinary visitors would do. Then 
he went to Quebec and there registered under the same 
fictitious name that he had before assumed. 

It was at Quebec that he first heard of the news 
from New York. It was but a brief telegram that he 
saw in the Quebec papers, but it worried him, for 
there was not a word about finding the clothes on the 
dock nor about his absence. He thought the silence 
on these points was portentous of evil. To be sure he 
read that the “ cashier and paying teller had been ar- 
rested,” and knew that Randolph and Erolt were the 
persons thus designated, but his own absence from the 
bank and from his own home, the note which Lillian 
had feft for Randolph, would all point to him as a 
fugitive and he could not for a moment believe that 
the detectives would do otherwise than seek to know 
where he was and swiftly follow on his track. 

He betrayed none of his anxiety to Lillian. In her 
presence he believed in a merry life, if a short one ; 
and to see the two together no one would have thought 
that they were otherwise than a couple of rich, care- 
free tourists from the “ States,” “ doing ” the quaint, 
old-fashioned city. But while Foerster was thus to 
everyone who saw him, apparently an idle, curious 
sight-seer, in reality he was busily scheming how best 
to throw the detectives off the track. When he was 


THE FUGITIVES. 


190 


in New York he thought of Canada as a safe asylum. 
Now that he was there, it seemed less safe, and he 
thought that perhaps he migiit have remained more 
securely hidden in New York. Europe seemed to him 
to be now the refuge he was seeking, but how should 
he get there ? 

To take the Canadian steamers abroad seemed to 
him to be inviting the very scrutiny which he was most 
anxious to avoid ; for who could fail to wonder that 
Philadelphians should come so far away from home to 
take a trans- Atlantic steamer. 

Reasoning thus upon his future course he formed the 
bold resolution to return to Philadelphia and take the 
steamer hence for Europe. Not the first nor the sec- 
ond steamer, for they would probably be watched, but 
the third or perhaps even the fourth. The intervening 
time could be spent in traveling and they could arrive 
in Philadelphia just in time to catch the steamer. 

Where should they travel ? Not in Canada, but in 
the United States. Having decided upon one bold 
stroke he would be bold in all his actions. Few detec- 
tives would be shrewd enough to look for him at home, 
and should they follow on his track to Canada and be- 
come suspicious of the personality of “ McMichael 
Biddle of Philadelphia,” the fact of that gentleman's 
undisguised and open return to the United States 
would, in all probability, cause their suspicion to 
vanish. 

In these days he could not but give some little 
thought to Randolph and Erolt — some little wonder as 
to how the affairs at the bank had affected them. 
That they were arrested he already knew, but he did 
not for a moment doubt that their detention would be 
very short, and that they would quickly be acquitted 
of all blame. Still these two men had been of all the 
bank’s employes the ones with whom he had been 
most brought into contact, and it was impossible for 
him not to have felt some liking for them. He also, in 
his leisure moments, found amusement in imagining the 
different ways in which the directors had received the 
news. Peacock Pierpoint, Silas Spoonstetter, Abial 
Jenkins and all the others whose character he had 
studied, and whose characteristics he remembered, 


200 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Became so many puppets performing upon the stage 
of his mind. But he was the sole spectator of those 
little comedies which he imagined with them as actors, 
for, as he had scrupulously kept from Lillian all true 
news of the hank’s failure or Randolph’s arrest, she 
could not share the pleasure which he took in those 
imaginings. He could not keep from her all the news 
for she knew — it was necessary that she should be told 
that he was a fugitive ; but he assured her that he 
had taken no money from the hank — that his sole crime 
had been using the funds under his charge in specula- 
tion in Wall Street, in which he had been successful 
and would return the money he had borrowed from 
the bank. And she, in her ignorance of the law, be- 
lieved that this was the crime for which he might be 
sought, for, womanlike — godlike, it may be — she 
could not see why, his faults being thus repaired, his 
wrong should not be pardoned. The rights of proper- 
ty are solely artificial rights, of man’s own devising, 
and women are not apt to regard with disfavor, as 
men do, an infringement of them. 

So he, knowing this peculiarity of woman’s nature, 
had told her his story, and she believed him. He 
knew well that she had come with him solely because 
of his money ; he believed that she loved Randolph as 
truly as she was capable of loving any man. But 
many women need two lovers, one to fill her heart and 
another to fill her purse. Randolph had filled her 
heart and left her no love to wish for, no heart empti- 
ness that another might fill, but he had not been 
able to satisfy her purse. While she had lived with 
him, economy had been the order of the day, and 
every penny had a value not lightly to be disregard- 
ed. His presents and little tokens of affection had 
been not more than a few flowers or a half-pound of 
bon bons. Foerster, on the contrary, would have 
strewn countless roses before her feet, had he thought 
it would give her pleasure. His presents were jewels, 
furs, laces — rich and expensive — such as her woman’s 
heart had sighed for. He was wise, and asked not for 
her love, only for her company, and that he was well 
content to exchange for his money. 

He did not look for gratitude. * He knew well that 


THE FUGITIVES. 


201 


tli is, the rarest of virtues, was seldom found in chil- 
dren or in women ; probably because they are so used 
to being taken care of, that they take it as a matter of 
course that they should be kindly treated, and do not 
stop to think that gratitude is due. 

He knew well that when his money failed she would 
leave him and return perhaps to Randolph, or to 
some one who would fill her heart, if not her purse. 
But he cared not for that, for he reasoned that when 
such times came, if they should ever come, she would 
be simply an incumbrance. He did not imagine that 
he could fill botn heart and purse. He knew that that 
ability was given to but few men, and that he was not 
one of them. 

It was a wise move on his part the telling her of his 
crime, for she thought it great fun to outwit the de- 
tectives. 'Women all the world over, in all times, and 
in all places, have been the ones to succor fugitives. 
So when he disclosed to her his plan of returning to 
the United States, she was at first startled at its bold- 
ness, and then, when he had more fully explained it to 
her, enchanted by its cleverness. She entered so fully 
into the spirit of his desire to elude pursuit, that she 
herself proposed to adopt the costume of a man ; and 
when it was decided, after a discussion of the pros and 
cons of this subterfuge, that it would not do, it was 
she who suggested that they should change identities 
and that he should appear as a woman and that she 
should be his male protector. 

This last proposal seemed to Foersterto be more 
practicable. There was certainly less risk of his dis- 
covery when he dressed in women’s clothes ; but could 
he play successfully a female part? 

“ But,” he said to Lillian, “ how can I regulate my 
walk, or govern the motions of my dress, and acquire 
the multitude of feminine gestures which you women 
have ?” 

“ You must learn from me,” she answered ; “ every 
evening I will give you instructions, until you are able 
to make your first appearance in public. After that 
I can, from day to day, correct such mistakes as 
occur, and who will be the wiser ?” 

“ But the growth of hair upon my face, will not that 
hetray me ?” 


202 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Paint and cosmetics will hide all that. Women 
might discover your true sex, men never would. You 
must light shy of women. When we are traveling, 
your veil will hide your face; at hotels we must dine 
alone. People may remark upon our exclusiveness or 
take us to be a young married couple, off on a wedding 
trip, hut what does that matter ? I will coach you 
and you must coach me.” 

“ And can you play the part of a man ?” 

“ So well, that I shall have the women falling in 
love with me.” 

Then they both laughed merrily over the anticipa- 
tion of their masquerade. 

That very night they began to practice ; Lillian in 
her male costume, Foerster in his woman’s dress. 
Three days later they were ready to appear before the 
world, in their disguises, but the question arose how 
and where were they to thus change sex. They could 
not do so at the hotel, for they were too well known ; to 
change in the stateroom of a palace car, would be to 
excite the comment or attention of the train men. 
How, where, should they change ? They set their 
wits to work to solve the problem. 

It was the woman’s ingenuity which hit upon the 
method. 

“ We must change in the woods,” she said. 

“In the woods ?” Foerster exclaimed. 

“ Yes, in the woods.” 

“ How ?” 

“ Listen and tell me what you think of my plan. 
You must send our trunks on to Montreal. Then 
having paid the bill, you must hire a light wagon to 
drive me somewhere for the last time, a covered 
wagon, say a buggy. We will drive to some seques- 
tered spot. I will jump out, hide in the woods, and 
emerge as a man. Then returning to the carriage, I will 
sit there, until you have completed the change. I 
shall be scarcely a moment, as I shall have on my 
men’s clothes, all, but the coat, under my dress. You 
must then dress yourself, and I will repair your omis- 
sions when you return. ” 

Foerster Vas silent for some minutes* revolving 
the plan in ills mind* 


THE FUGITIVES. 208 

“ Do you really think I can disguise myself ?” he at 
last asked. 

“ I think you can,” he answered. “ A loose wrap 
will hide many deficiencies, a thick veil pinned over 
your face, and bonnet will do much more.” 

“ But how can I tell how to put that veil on ?” he 
said mournfully. 

“ Oh, I can fix that in the wagon,” Lillian said 
merrily. “ Then we must drive on, till we come near 
a likely looking farmhouse. We will drive past it, 
until some bend in the road hides us from sight. 
Then something must happen to the wagon or har- 
ness, or the horse, and leaving you, I will go back, 
explain our predicament, and get the farmer to drive 
us to the train.” 

“ But they will want to know who we are !” 

‘ ‘ Of course. I will tell them that we were out for a last 
look at the country, when we broke down. Should 
they ask further, the story told the hotel people will 
do for them. We are Mr. and Mrs. McMichael Bid- 
dle of Philadelphia.” 

Foerster could find no objection to Lillian’s plan and it 
was carried out. The baggage was sent on, the 
hotel bill paid, a buggy hired, a lonely spot found, the 
change of costumes was made ; Lillian, amid much 
subdued laughter, gave the finishing touches to Foer- 
ster’s apparel, the farmhouse was found and passed, 
the tire slipped from the wheel, and the farmer drove 
them to the depot and agreed to return the horse and 
buggy to the livery stable keeper. All this was done, 
and as the train rolled out of the station it carried Lil- 
lian and Foerster safe in their new identities. 

Lillian and Foerster stayed but one night in Montreal, 
and stopped at a hotel where they were not known, 
giving there names as Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell of New 
York. The following day they went to Chicago and 
discarded their disguises. Thence they journeyed to 
St. Louis, Detroit, St. Paul and other cities ; still, 
however, changing their apparel and appearances. 
They even took a trip to New Orleans, though the hot 
weather deprived it of any pleasure. Foerster, in the 
meantime, engaged passage to Europe in one of the 
Philadelphia steamers, and they arrived there the day 


204 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


it sailed. Pleading fatigue, they remained in their 
stateroom until the steamer had left the wharf. 

The voyage across the ocean was pleasant, and when 
they arrived at the other side, they went directly to Lon- 
don. There in that great city they resumed their prop- 
er sexes. Foerster was glad to get rid of the trumpery 
he had worn, and Lillian was glad to resume that cos 
tume which admitted of so much adornment. 

It was fortunate for them that they had not at- 
tempted to leave by a New York steamer, as once, 
believing their disguises to he impenetrable, they had 
thought of doing. Fortunately for them, wiser and 
more cautious resolves prevailed ,and they left by the 
Philadelphia line ; for although all the trans- Atlantic 
steamers were watched by detectives, even the steam- 
er in which they had embarked, the New York 
steamers were watched by a detective which it would 
have been hard to elude, even disguised as they were. 
The little dog, Scrap pie was on watch for his mistress 
and he would probably have recognized her even under 
the disguise of masculine attire. 

Scrappie happened to join the detectives in thiswise. 
Randolph and Erolt were sitting one evening, shortly 
after their release on bail, in Randolph’s flat. They 
had been smoking in silence for some time when Ran- 
dolph slapped his leg and exclaimed : 

“ By Jove, Erolt ! We never thought of Scrappie !” 

“ Never thought of, Scrappie? W by, what do you 
mean ?” Erolt was surprised at Randolph’s vehem- 
ence. “ Here he is,” he continued, as the dog, hearing 
his own name, came running up. “ Here he is.” 

“ Why, we never thought of telling the detectives 
about Scrappie !” 

“ Still I don’t understand.” 

“Why, how stupid you are !” Randolph rejoined 
testily. “ Don’t you see ; the detectives do not know 
either Foerster or Lillian, but Scrappie would know 
them both in a minute. If they should take him with 
them he would be sure to scent out Lillian if she was 
anywhere near.” 

“ Oh, I see !” Erolt said. “ That’s not a bad idea. 
You had better suggest it to them.” 

“So I shall to-morrow.” 


EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 265 

* 

Thus Scrappie joined the detective force, aftd for the 
next three months there was seen on the deck of every 
steamer that sailed from New York a neatly dressed 
gentleman and a small pug dog apparently looking for 
friends. It is needless to say that Scrappie never 
found his mistress, but had Foerster and Lillian at- 
tempted to leave by the New York steamer, Scrappie 
would surely have detected them. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 

During the time consumed by the events which we 
have narrated in the past dozen chapters, Douglas 
Egerton and his family pursued the even tenor of their 
lives. The social customs of Chicago became more 
familiar to the ladies of the family, and Douglas Eger- 
ton himself became more and more intimate with the 
highways and by-ways of business and politics. The 
hidden safe in his OAvn private and particular den re- 
ceived each week more of those tell-tale slips of paper 
which betokened that some new man had fallen into 
his power, or that another link had been added to the 
chains which bound some previous captive. 

Douglas Egerton had, moreover, unfolded another 
page of his character to a few of his chosen friends, 
and let them know that lie was a bold speculator in 
the grain markets of Chicago and on the stock ex- 
change in New York. He gave them to understand 
that he did not operate alone, but in conjunction with 
others, and they could readily understand that his 
wide social and political acquaintance in Chicago en- 
abled him to gain secret and sure information as to the 
contemplated movements of the grain gamblers ; and 
equally as readily they believed his insinuation that 
he was leagued with some of the largest operators in 
New York. 

In truth, he was an operator both in stocks and in 
grain, though not to such an extent as -he gave these 
acquaintances of his to understand. If he purposely 
exaggerated, it was that his wealth and his income 


206 


the Unpardonable sin. 


might be imputed to these sources. Probably he 
would have been a richer man had he kept all his 
“points ” to himself ; but many a judge on the bench 
and many a politician high in office, were indebted to 
him for advice, which they had followed to their own 
pecuniary advantage. 

Egerton’s aim was to become the financial adviser 
of these men. Knowing their pecuniary affairs, he 
would know at what times they were most easily ac- 
cessible to such reasons as he could bring to bear 
upon them, and from the mere nature of his confiden- 
tial relationship with them would be enabled to reason 
with them more satisfactorily. 

He felt pretty well satisfied with his relationship 
with all the judges except Judge Bret — him only 
Douglas Egerton had no hold over. He tried one de- 
vice after another, but Judge Bret steered clear of 
every pitfall which the astute schemer put in his way. 
He lived economically, and his salary as Chief Justice 
of the Superior Court seemed ample for his needs. 
Many years would yet elapse before his term of office 
would expire, so he had no need to seek for political 
power. He was content with his own social station, 
and did not seek to rise higher. Yet Douglas Eger- 
ton was confident that this man had some one hobb3^, 
or some one weakness, through which if he only knew 
it, he could gain a hold upon him. Yet he was baffled 
in all his efforts to find out what this was. One device 
after another had failed, and he was beginning to 
think that Judge Bret was invulnerable when he be- 
thought himself of his daughter. Could not she help 
him ? 

He asked her one day as they sat at home alone to- 
gether, whether she knew what Judge Bret’s hobby 
was. 

“No, I don’t,” she said, “but he likes me very 
much, and I will try to find out, if you wish.” 

“I wish you would,” he said. “Do you think he 
speculates ?” 

She shook her head with an impatient negative. 

“ He’s not that kind of a man. He might be a 
fancier of dogs, horse ', or birds, a collector of coins, old 
ooks or antiquities, but not a speculator.” 


EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 


207 


‘‘Pray tell me/’ her father inquired eagerly, “ have 
you seen about his house signs of those hobbies you 
mention ?” 

“None,” she answered thoughtfully. “He had a 
fair library but nothing very special in it. I will have 
to And out.” 

Several weeks afterwards Alice whispered to her 
father as the guests were leaving after a dinner which 
theEgertons had given, “1 wish to speak to you to- 
night. Can I come to your den ?” 

“Yes,” he responded. “You have found out?” 

She answered with a merry nod, and turned away 
smiling to resume her duties as an assistant hostess. 
But later on as she entered her father’s den and sat 
down in a chair, she said : 

“ I have found out Judge Bret’s hobby.” 

“ What is it? ” he said, eagerly. 

“ Guess,” she replied with a bright smile. 

“ Horses ?” he asked, entering into her mood, and 
laughing with her. 

“No.” 

“ Dogs ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Pictures ?” 

“No.” 

“ Coins, then ?” 

“No.” 

“ Books?” 

“ Not exactly.” 

“ Ah ! Then it has something to do with books. Is 
he a collector of engravings ?” 

“No.” 

“No? Let me see. Oh, I have it. Autographs!” 

“No.” 

“ 1 give it up, then. What is it? ” 

“ He writes.” 

“Writes?” 

“ He is an author — or thinks himself one.” 

“ Phew ! And did you find out what he writes ?” 

“ Fiction and plays.” 

“Fiction and plays! The Chief Justice of the 
Superior Court the author of Action and plays ? Ha, 
ha, ha ! ” 


208 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


He leaned back in his chair, laughing* heartily and 
she joined him. 

Oh Laughter ! Laughter, what a boon thou art to 
mankind. We throw our heads back, when thy spell 
is upon us and our lungs workup and down, and the 
blood surges through our veins, until the muscles of 
our chests are wearied with the unwonted exertion, 
and every particle of foul air and effete blood has been 
reinvigorated. 

So these two, father and daughter, sat there laugh- 
ing long and heartily as if they saw something ex- 
tremely amusing in the fact of Judge Bret’s being an 
author. 

At last Egerton, restraining his mirth, asked : 

“ Does he publish what he writes ?” 

Alice replied with mock gravity, “ Alas ! that is his 
grievance. He is afraid or ashamed to apply to a 
publisher here, and so he sends his manuscripts, under 
assumed names, to distant cities, and, gets them back 
again.” 

Again the two joined in a hearty laugh, and then 
Alice rose, kissed her father good-night, and went 
quietly down the stairs. 

After she left, Douglas Egerton sat musing upon 
what he had learned . 

“ So !” he muttered, “ he would be an author. How 
shall I utilize my knowledge ? How can I aid his am- 
bition, and then gain his confidence ?” 

He pondered deeply over these matters, and sat 
thinking about them until that part of the city where 
he lived had long been quietly at rest. Once he sat 
down at his desk, and began to mark figures on a 
piece of paper. When he had finished, he sat for an 
hour or more studying them deeply. 

At last he rose with a sigh of relief, and putting his 
memoranda into the desk, muttered, as he stretched 
himself : 

“ I can see no other way. Alice must help me in 
this.” 

The scheme which he had devised was this : In his 
search after social honors, he had not been unmindful 
of those useful conneciions which one makes in charL 
Bible occupations, a nd both Alice and he** mother had 


EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 


209 


received instructions to join the boards of institutions 
of charity, and an allowance of ten thousand dollars a 
year had been made for distribution by them among* 
such societies. Now it occurred to Douglas Eg*ertonto 
utilize this expenditure, and g*ain the sought-for en- 
trance into Judge Bret’s confidence at one and the 
same time. He believed that the judge’s wife was 
much interested in a certain charity of which Alice 
and Mrs. Egerton were managers. His idea was to 
give an entertainment — a theatrical performance of 
one of the Judge’s plays — for the benefit of this charity. 
If volunteer actors could not be found, he knew that 
he could hire performers from the regular profession. 
Properly managed, the affair would cost him nothing ; 
but whether the proceeds of the entertainment did or 
did not exceed the expense, was a secondary matter. 
What power he would gain was his whole consider- 
ation . 

He spoke to Alice about the scheme, and she favor- 
ed it, and promised to speak about the matter to some 
of her friends, and let him know what they thought 
about it. 

She did so, and her friends finding that it would cost 
them nothing, entered heartily into the scheme. She 
took upon herself all the details of the affair ; her 
father’s only share in the work was to induce Judge 
Bret to write the play for them. 

“ Alice,” her father said to her, “ if this enter- 
tainment is successful, I will take you to Europe.” 

“Then it will be successful,” she answered de- 
cidedly, for a trip to Europe was what she ardently 
desired. 

It was successful. Judge Bret after many modest 
demurrers sent Egerton a play, desiring, however, 
that its authorship should be unknown. To this 
Douglas Egerton was nothing loth, for he well knew 
the fellowship which comes from sharing secrets. 
Thenceforward he and the Chief Justice were like a 
couple of conspirators, plotting, however, for the bene- 
fit and not the injury of others. 

Alice on her part, brought all her friends into the 
scheme, enlisted their sympathies and labors, aa<$ suc- 
ceeded ill disposing of twice gs many tickets as \\\ { x 


210 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


house would hold people. The most prominent per- 
sons in the city lent their names as patrons and 
patronesses, and the daily newspapers were induced to 
liberally and gratuitously advertise the coming* enter- 
tainment. The Academy of Music was hired and 
when its boxes were put up for sale, Douglas Egerton 
purchased one, and Judge Bret the other. New scen- 
ery was painted for the play, and only two professional 
actors were required, the other roles being taken by 
amateurs. 

The night came at length. As the newspapers 
phrased it, all the wit, beauty and fashion of the city, 
filled the house from floor to ceiling, and the aisles 
were packed with eager sig’ht-seers. Judge Bret sat 
in his box in all the eager anticipation of a playwright 
at his first performance. Who can tell the sensations 
of an author — sensations alternately of hope and fear, 
and not unmixed with pleasure — when he sees his first 
book in print, his first play represented on the stage, 
his first poem in the magazine! Judge Bret experi- 
enced these sensations, and his mind was the play- 
ground of alternate hopes and fears. 

But he need not have worried. The audience was 
not disposed to be critical. Everyone knew that the 
actors were mostly amateurs, and it had been whis- 
pered that the author of the play was likewise a dis- 
tinguished amateur. Besides, was not the whole 
performance an act of charity, and was it not there- 
fore their duty to be pleased with what was set before 
them, and to be thankful that it was not worse ? So 
reasoned the audience as they applauded upon every 
possibility for applause. 

The play was bad enough, beaven knows, and would 
never have been accepted by a professional manager, 
but Judge Bret’s heart leaped with delight at every 
round of applause, and he became deeply grateful to 
Douglas Egerton. 

So when all was over, Douglas Egerton was satis- 
fied, although after the expenses were paid, only a 
hundred and twenty-five dollars were left for the 
charity. 

Indeed Douglas Egerton had cause to be satisfied, 

for this performance" was the ke t y which unlocked for 


EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 


211 


him that secret closet wherein Judge Bret kept his 
hidden skeleton. Few men who have lived long and 
busy lives have escaped from this grim tyrant, this 
skeleton which they are ever forced to hide from the 
sight of men. Sometimes it takes one shape, some- 
times another. Sometimes the undisturbed dust of 
years will accumulate upon it, and almost bury it from 
sight ; sometimes it is ever bright and fresh. 

Judge Bret’s skeleton was a disagreement with his 
wife. Either the Judge was a gay Lothario or she 
was the most jealous woman in the world. Douglas 
Egerton heard both their stories, and was really at a 
loss which to believe. Every few months, it seemed, 
Mrs. Bret threatened to sue for a divorce, and to 
publish her suspicions — facts, she called them — to the 
world, and the Chief Justice was periodically thrown 
into alarm lest she should in some moment of anger 
fulfill her threats, and bring the scandal down upon 
him. 

Douglas Egerton gloated over his possession of the 
secret, and he took pains to have both the Judge and 
his wife write him letters referring to it. Judge Bret’s 
wife had been a widow with one child when he married 
her, and previous to that marriage, he had been a 
gay young politician about town. He owed his posi- 
tion on the Bench solely to political influence, and its 
salary was his sole income. Somehow he had come to 
be regarded as incorruptible and the perquisites on 
which the other judges became wealthy, were never 
offered to him, but all the same he sometimes cast 
covetous eyes upon them as Egerton subsequently 
found out. He was not rich, for Mrs. Bret was an ex- 
travagant woman, and the Judge spent all his salary. 
Egerton came to learn that his method of pacifying 
Mrs. Bret, when she threatened exposure and divorce, 
was to pay her a sum of money, and Egerton was not 
sure but what Mrs. Bret simply made the threats 
with a view of extorting a payment. 

There is a proverb which says, “ All things come 
to him who waits.” Douglas Egerton remembered 
this and cautiously bided his time. It came at last. 
Mrs. Bret became more rampant than before, and at 
a time when the Chief Justice was out of money ; 


m 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


what could he do hut apply to Egerton— his friend — 
for money ; and Douglas Egerton without a demur 
loaned him the amount, taking his note for it. He 
paid him by check to the judge’s order, and when the 
check came with the judge’s signature on the back, 
and the endorsement which showed that it had gone 
through the judge’s own bank, he pinned both note 
and check together and smiled a grim smile as he lock- 
ed them both up in the safe in his den. 

Now for the first time in many years Douglas Eger- 
ton felt safe. No matter what he might do now there 
was not a judge in the city of Chicago who would wish 
to punish him for it. And should an enemy cross his 
path there was not a judge who would refuse to crush 
that enemy. 

But it must not be supposed that Douglas Egerton, 
during these times, neglected his business. Whatever 
that business was, whether the practice of the law 
(which covers so many employments), or speculating 
in grain or stocks, or something else, it brought him 
large returns ; and those who knew him best surmis- 
ed that his wealth amounted to more than a million 
dollars. 

But somehow, now that he had accomplished what 
he had set out to accomplish, he wished to rest awhile 
from his labors, and he remembered his promise to 
Alice and determined to fulfill it. 

He had made up his mind to leave during the first 
week of July, and Alice and Mrs. Egerton were all 
prepared by the first of the month to start for New 
York where they were to take the Cunarder which 
was to bear them over the ocean. But then came the 
news of the failure of the Specie Payment Bank and 
the panic on the Stock Exchange, and that detained 
them a week longer in Chicago and another week in 
New York. 

Douglas Egerton, when sympathized with by curi- 
ous friends who came to learn whether he had been 
hurt by the panic, smiled sweetly upon his visitors and 
told them that fortunately he had been “short” of 
the market, so that he had made instead of losing 
money. He did not tell them what he might, had he 
so chosen ; namely, that the Governor of the State of 


EGERTON SNARES JUDGE BRET. 213 

Atlantic, the Senators from that State to the Con- 
gress of the United States, the Chief Justice and other 
Judges of the Superior Court, and several other promi- 
nent officials had followed his secret advice and like- 
wise sold the market short and made money ; hut all 
the same he preserved the evidence of their having 
done thus, and. it, with his other letters and papers, 
were securely placed in a safe deposit company in 
New York before he left the country. For he was 
head and front of what is known in Wall street par- 
lance as a “ blind pool,” that is a pool where only one 
man has the control of the speculation, and the others 
trust blindly to him. Neither did the parties to this 
pool know who were in it, nor what amounts the 
others had put in ; all their dealings were with 
Douglas Egerton, and he alone possessed that infor- 
mation. He himself had made so much that he natur- 
ally felt elated with his success, and lavished money 
with a profuse hand. 

Several matters detained him in New York. First 
of all it took him some few days to gather in his gains. 
Many of the prominent brokers and operators had 
been hit hard, and had been obliged to ask for time in 
which to meet their liabilities. They could pay of 
course-all except a very few — but the thunderbolt had 
fallen upon them out of a clear sky, and they were 
not prepared to pay out immediately the large sums 
which their losses entailed. Douglas Egerton was in 
no pressing need of their money, and willingly granted 
them more time in which to pay it. But the arrange- 
ment of these matters delayed his departure. Second- 
ly, he had bought for a rise, when he thought that the 
market was at its lowest ebb, and waited until it slow- 
ly gathered its energies and mounted up again to 
something near its previous figures. Thirdly, there 
was a question of what he should do with his gains. 
He said to Alice one afternoon as they were driving 
at sunset through Central Park, which had not at that 
time acquired its present reputation as a noxious 
breeder of malaria : 

“ Alice, I want to invest some money for your bene- 
fit.” 

“ That’s very good of you, father,” she replied. 


214 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Yes,” he continued, “ I want to put some of my 
gains into property in your name, so that if anything 
happens to me you will be assured of an income, 
as it will be all yours. I thought it best to speak to 
you about it. You are a better business woman than 
most girls of your age — better far than your mother. 
I don’t know where you get your wisdom from.” 

Never before had Douglas Egerton allowed Alice to 
see that he was aware of the difference between her 
and his wife, and she noted this admission of his with 
surprise, but she was too wise to show that she had 
observed it, and answered with a merry smile : 

“ Perhaps I get it from you.” 

Egerton laughed. 

“ Wherever it comes from,” he said, “ I am going 
to put it to the test, and invest a quarter of a million 
in your name.” 

Alice started as he mentioned the sum. 

“ As much as that?” she exclaimed, “ oh, father, 
how good of you.” 

“ How shall I invest it ?” he inquired. “ In stocks 
and bonds, or in real estate ?’ ’ 

“One has to pay taxes on real estate, don’t they?” 

“ Yes, and assessments, also.” 

“But they do not have to on stocks or bonds, do 
they ?” 

“ Not if the stocks and bonds are good. There is in 
most States a tax on personal property, but one can 
always get off cheaply by residing in some country 
town where taxes are very low.” 

“ But I should not want to bury myself alive in a 
country town,” said Alice, poutingly. 

“ Oh, that is by no means necessary,” Egerton an- 
swered laughing, “ all you have to do is buy a farm 
there, live on it a few days in the year, and then call 
yourself a resident.” 

te I think,” Alice replied, after some minutes of re- 
flection, “ that it would be better to put it into differ- 
ent things, would it not ?” 

“ Much better, though it would give you more trou- 
ble to manage it.” 

“ Would you approve of putting one-third of it into 
improved real estate, from which I could draw rents, 


I LOVE, I LOVE. 


215 


one-third into unimproved property, and another third 
into stocks and bonds ?” 

4 4 There spoke my little business woman/’ Egerton 
said gleefully. “ I will make a list of good specimens 
of all three, and you can choose the investments from 
them. As soon as that is finished, we will sail 
abroad.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

I LOVE, I LOVE. 

The Egertons went abroad about the same time that 
Lillian and Foerster did, and the two parties met in 
Paris, They were staying at the same hotel, and Eg- 
erton met Foerster there and introduced him to his 
wife and Alice. 

The pleasures of the gay French capital had given a 
glow of animation to Alice’s usually calm face, and as 
Foerster looked at her when she smiled at him upon 
his first introduction to her, he thought he had never 
seen so beautiful a specimen of a lovely woman. It 
may be doubted if he ever had ; for Alice, becomingly 
dressed and enjoying herself in perfect contentment, 
was bewitcliingly beautiful. At the sight of her, 
Foerster felt the blood surging through his veins, as 
it never had before. He was astonished at his own 
feelings. “ Could it be,” he thought, “ that he had 
fallen in love at first sight, with Douglas Eger- 
ton’s daughter ?” And yet, he reasoned that she was 
a woman who might well claim a man’s heart even 
upon the first interview. 

He could not but contrast the feeling that he felt for 
her with what he had felt for Lillian. Ignorant of 
what true love was like, he thought he had loved the 
latter, but now that the grand passion had overmas- 
tered him, he knew that Lillian had been but the mere 
companion of his idle hours, the mere plaything of a 
loveless heart. It seemed to him like profanation to 
think of Lillian, while the memory of Alice was in his 
mind, and yet Lillian was so constantly with him, so 
ever present at his side, while the thought of Alice 
filled his heart, he could not help contrasting the two, 


216 


THE L'N PARDONABLE SIN. 


An unbiased mind, judging- the two women, would 
have given the preference to Lillian. She was not as 
beautiful as Alice, nor had she the same delicate finish 
of manners which Alice had, but she lacked the cold, 
calculating spirit of the latter, and the crafty disposi- 
tion which found so much delight in plotting, schem- 
ing and dissembling. As Alice was in accomplish- 
ments above most of the women of Lillian’s rank in 
life, so Lillian, in personal beauty of face and form, 
was equally above those of a higher grade. 

Lillian, moreover, was more than twenty-six years 
old, and say what you will, if a woman has led an 
eventful life, time will begin to tell upon her after she 
has reached that age. But Alice, not yet twenty, was 
in the meridian of her beauty. Her’s was no longer 
the loveliness of the budding maiden, but rather the 
maturer beauty of womanhood. Pitted against almost 
any other woman, Lillian would have held her own, 
but pitted against Alice Egerton, she could not but 
lose by the contrast. But Eoerster was no unbiased 
or unprejudiced judge to calmly study and weigh the 
natures of the two women. Alice had captured his 
heart, and he was her lover ; and what lover ever fails 
to think his beloved the most perfect woman on the 
earth ! 

Lillian, in the meantime, took no heed of Foerster’s 
growing love for Alice. She merely knew that he had 
met her f that much he had told her, saying also that 
Douglas Egerton was an old business acquaintance. 
She had never met the Egertons and had onl3 T seen 
them a few times, as she was passing in or out of the 
hotel. Her own time was fully occupied. She was 
taking lessons in painting from a famous master, and 
the hours which she did not spend in his atelier, were 
devoted to shopping or in viewing the many sights 
which attract the attention of strangers in that gay 
capital. 

She realized that Foerster was away from her much 
of the time, but it gave her no trouble. She had never 
given him more than the smallest appreciable quantity 
of her love, and had begun to tire of his constant pres- 
ence long*before they arrived in Paris*. She liked his 
wealth* as long as he shared t hat with her, he was 


I LOVE, I LOVE 


217 


free to come and go as he chose. His absence was 
agreeable to her rather than otherwise, for it gave her 
the opportunity of arranging her time to suit herself, 
and left her so much more liberty to follow out her 
own inclinations. She did not imagine that there was 
any danger of his deserting her." but thought that 
some day he would be wearied of his freedom, and re- 
turn to her constant companionship. Had she loved 
him, she could not have been so absolutely uncaring 
about his actions. So his courtship of Alice Egerton 
went on unknown to her, and without interference 
from her. 

She was in no hurry to leave Paris, until she had 
finished the various courses of study which she had 
laid out for herself, and he was content to stay there 
as long as Alice Egerton remained. So the winter 
months, as they came and went, saw Lillian and 
Foerster and the Egertons still domiciled in the 
Parisian hotel. 

Did Alice Egerton love Foerster? She knew, of 
course, that he liked her very much, could give a 
shrewd guess that he loved her, but as for loving him, 
that was another matter. Sometimes when she was 
by herself she tried to analyze her feelings towards 
him. She liked him, certainly, and liked the little at- 
tentions which he showered upon her and the pleasures 
which he planned for her. But did she love him ? In 
truth, there was something in his nature akin to hers 
that bound them together with bonds of sympathy. 
Both had a cold, cruel streak through their natures 
that made them take pleasure in what others might 
have shuddered at. Both loved wealth, and both were 
rich. Both loved the gaiety, the rush and whirl of the 
fashionable world, and to both the peace of a quiet 
home-life was unattractive. 

Some natures are brought into harmony one with 
another, by the very 'dissimilarity of their traits, 
while others are bound together by the very fact of 
their likeness. 

But whatever Alice may have thought of Foerster’s 
wooing, Douglas Egerton, when his eyes were opened 
to it. was displeased. Yet he did not see how he could 
interfere. He knew that Foerster was living under an 


218 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


assumed name, and knew that he was the missing 1 
cashier of the Specie Payment Bank, but on the other 
hand, Foerster knew part of his own secret doings, 
and Egerton, for his protection, was hound to shield 
him. To remonstrate with Alice was a t^sk from 
which he shrank. It was indeed doubtful whether she 
would heed the words that he might speak, and 
whether his objecting would not hasten the very 
catastrophe he feared. She was of age, and, thanks 
to his liberality in New York, was possessed of an in- 
dependent fortune. But he had formed vague plans 
for her social advancement. She was destined by him 
to marry some great celebrity, and to shine as a 
bright planet amid the stars of the social and political 
world. In the pride of his own fortune and of her 
loveliness, he thought that there was no height to 
which she might not climb. 

Views such as these were in his mind when he had 
first promised to take her abroad. But now, when 
she had really arrived in Paris, when more than one 
titled adventurer, attracted by his wealth, and by her 
surpassing beauty, was at her feet, when but a few 
words from her lips would have made her mistress of 
a noble name and high rank, he saw her listening 
with calm attention to the wooing of a man who would 
be known to the world only through a great and novel 
fraud. 

Had Foerster been a plain, honest citizen, Egerton 
would not have felt such bitter disappointment when 
his cherished dreams were dashed to the ground. He 
might have consoled himself with the hope that 
Alice’s talents and his fortune would have ultimately 
lifted her husband to fame; but there was a stigma 
upon Foerster’s life which forbade such hopes. Had 
he been able, without injuring himself, to disclose 
Foerster’s true personality, he would have denounced 
him to the police, but he could not. There was noth- 
ing, therefore, but to let events take their course, and 
to wait with such patience as he could command until 
the end arrived. 

Thus, the two people who might have checked the 
course of Foerster’s love affair refrained from inter- 
fering — Lillian, because she was heedless of it, 


I. LOVE, I LOVE. 219 

Douglas Egerton, because he feared the result of inter- 
ference. 

As for Foerster himself, he was happy and miser- 
able by turns, as all lovers are, when the first flush of 
their first great love is upon them. When Alice 
smiled upon him he was happy ; when she frowned 
upon him, or flirted with some other man, he was sad. 
He acquired all the habits of a lover, treasured the 
glove or flower whith. she had worn, and kissed them 
when she was absent from him. 

Little as Lillian troubled him by her personal pres- 
ence in those days, he began to think of her as an 
incumbrance, and plan how he could rid himself of her. 
Had he only known that she would have been glad to 
leave him, if she could still have an income at her com- 
mand, he would have settled an annual allowance of a 
few thousand dollars upon her. But with the vanity 
of mankind, he believed that parting with him would 
be a sad blow to her, that the severing of their com- 
panionship would cause her pain, and that she would 
bitterly strive against it. As if to make up for his 
personal neglect of her, he brought her frequent 
presents of rings, chains and bracelets, and every bill 
which she incurred he paid without a murmur. 

So the winter months rolled by, Lillian growing each 
day more proficient in languages, painting and music, 
and the customs of the gay Parisian world ; Foerster 
growing more ardently in love with Alice, more 
timorous of Lillian ; Douglas Egerton fretting internal- 
ly at the course whioh he saw events were taking and 
groaning over his own impotence to check or alter 
them ; Alice flirting with the many admirers that 
thronged about her and listening more and more con- 
tentedly to the ex-cashier. Perhaps Mrs. Egerton was 
the only one for whom life in those days ran idly, 
peacefully and calmty. 

At length one spring day, the event which Douglas 
Egerton" dreaded came to pass. Foerster had told 
Alice that he loved her, and she had not said him nay. 

But Egerton, when Foerster asked for his daughter, 
refused to give his consent. 

“How can you expect otherwise?” he said to 
Foerster. “ You are a marked man, That affair at 


220 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


the bank will never be forgotten. The very name you 
bear is not really your own. 5 ’ 

“But I can keep it all the same.” 

“ Were it not for that affair of the bank, I would not 
object.” 

“And who planned that affair? You , yourself! 
Who furnished me with the counterfeits ? You , your- 
self ! Who acted with me, and partly as my agent, 
in selling the market short, knomng that when the 
bank failed a panic would ensue ? Who but you, 
Douglas Egerton? And now you taunt me with 
schemes of your own devising !” 

“ True, my dear fellow, but how could I foresee that 
you and Alice would meet ? How can I let her marry 
you under a false name ?” 

“ Then let me tell her all, and let her decide.” 

“ You could not do so without telling her my part 
in the transaction, and she must never know that!” 

“ She must know the reason of your refusal.” 

“She shall!” Douglas Egerton exclaimed with 
sudden vehemence. “ To-night I will tell her all, and 
leave her fate in her own hands. If she bids me I will 
go away and never see her more. She shall have my 
whole fortune — I will only keep a bare pittance for 
myself. I will make a full confession to her, and she 
shall know all!” 

“She does!” said a clear voice, and pushing aside 
the drapery that hung before the doorway, Alice 
Egerton entered the room . 

“ She does know all,” she said as she stood con- 
fronting the two men. 

They gazed at her with pallid faces, as she stood be- 
fore them calm and stately, the dark background of 
the portiere bringing out her figure in bold relief. 

Douglas Egerton sank into a chair and buried his 
face in his hands and groaned aloud : $ 

“My daughter! Oh, my daughter!” he sobbed, 
“ can you forgive me ?” 

She came swiftly to his side, and placing her hand 
upon his head, tenderly stroked his hair. 

“Yes,” she said, “ 1 know all. I have know it for 
many months.” 

He started to his feet and gazed at her with wild 


I LOVE, I LOVE. 


221 

surprise. “ For months !” he cried, “ you have 
known it for months !” Then as a sudden fear fell 
upon him he cried again : 

“Oh, my daughter, who told you this?” 

“No one; I learned it for myself,” she said. “I, 
too, have a confession to make. Once, in an idle 
humor, I wandered over our home in Chicago. In the 
ceiling of an unfrequented closet on the upper floor — 
a closet where we used to store our trunks — I noticed 
what seemed to me to he a trap door. I thought it 
was a scuttle leading to the roof, and, in my cu- 
riosity, I piled the trunks one upon another, and 
clambered over them till I could reach it. The hinges 
were rusty, but they yielded to my pressure. It had 
been nailed down, but the wood was rotten and the 
nails did not hold. As the door swung upwards I saw 
that it opened into a garret. 1 had not known before 
that there was a garret in our house, and though it 
was dark and gloomy, there was a mood upon me 
which made me curious to explore it. I hurried to my 
room, and taking a candle, returned and mounted the 
trunks again and stepped up into the garret. It was 
partly empty, a few loose boards were strewn over 
the beams o! the floor, and a few empty boxes seemed 
to be all it contained. Still holding the candle high 
over my head, I stepped cautiously over the beams 
and made the circuit of the place. Nothing rewarded 
my search until a loose board slipped from beneath my 
feet, and I fell against the wall. I had touched some 
hidden spring, and, to my surprise, a narrow space 
swung open and gave me entrance to the garret of 
Miss Stacklefurd’s house. I knew at once that I was 
in some secret place, but curiosity urged me to ex- 
plore it, and I entered. The floor was covered deep 
with soft felt so that my footsteps made no noise. 
Strange machines that I knew not the use of were 
standing about. Then I saw sheets of paper, marks 
of ink and engraved plates, and knew that I had light- 
ed upon some hidden printing establishment. Still I 
did not know the true meaning of all this, and thought 
that perhaps some secret political society used it for 
their printing. But searching further, I found what 
gave me a true insight into the character of the place — 
I found a crumpled banknote printed only on one side, 


223 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


“ Strangely enough, before this I had felt no fear, hut 
now a terrible dread seemed to fall upon me. I hurried 
from the place, swung to the brick door behind me, 
and heard the click of the spring as it slid into its 
place. It seemed *so loud to me — to echo so noisily 
through the garret that I thought some one must hear 
— and I listened tremblingly. But all was still. Then 
I hurried to the trap-door, jumped down upon the 
trunks and pulled the door to; but not until I gained 
my own room did I feel safe. I kept my adventure to 
myself, and you, to-day, are the first ones who ever 
heard of it.” 

She paused, and Douglas Eger ton raised his head as 
if to speak; but she stopped him with a gesture, and 
resumed : 

“ More than a year ago, you said that you had busi- 
ness in New York and you took me with you when you 
went there. The morning after your arrival, you bade 
me amuse myself as best I chose while you went down 
town. After you had left me, I sent for a carriage 
and went to a few stores to shop. But there was noth- 
ing that I really wished to buy, and after some trifling 
purchases were made, the time hung heavy on my 
hands. A sudden whim seized me to see the lower 
part of the city in its busiest hours, and I bade the 
driver drive me down Broadway, then past the Stock 
Exchange, through Wall Street and up and down the 
side streets. As he was driving slowly along I caught 
sight of you walking upon the sidewalk. I beckoned 
to you but you would not see me. Yielding to an idle 
whim I stopped the carriage and asked a policeman 
who was standing by if he knew who those gentlemen 
might be, pointing you out to him. He answered that 
your companion was the cashier of the Specie Payment 
Bank; you he did not know. You know I never forget 
a face that I have once seen, and so, when I saw Mr. 
Eoerster here I recollected him. I had read of the 
failure of the bank and knew at once why he was here 
under an assumed name. 

“ Now, I have made my confession. Will you for- 
give me?” 

She had stood stately and erect while she had told 
these things,, but now she came closer to her father’s 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


m 


side and placed her hand upon his shoulder and looked 
pleadingly up into his face. 

He bent down and kissed her, and the tears glistened 
in his eyes as he said softly : 44 To think that you have 
known these things all this while and never told me !” 

4 4 Would you have been happier if I had ?” she said. 
44 No ! If this occasion had not arisen, they would have 
been locked in my own breast until I died.” 

Egerton turned’ to Foerster who stood silently by 
and said, 44 Take her, Foerster. You have my consent. 
Knowing all, she has said yes , and now I cannot say 
nay. ” 

He kissed his daughter once again, then turned and 
quitted the room and left these two lovers together. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 

Now that Foerster had proposed to Alice, and been 
accepted by that young lady, he felt that it was neces- 
sary that he should break off his relations with Lillian, 
or at least remove her from the vicinity of the Eger- 
tons. Yet, like many another man, he shrank from the 
task, and put it off from day to da 3 ", dreading to per- 
form it. His fears were all selfish fears. He did not 
hesitate on Lillian’s account. At last he mustered up 
courage and spoke to her : 

44 Lilly, dear,” he said, 44 1 have bad news for you.” 

She looked up at him, startled more by his tone than 
by his words, and asked : 

’“What is it ?” 

44 1 can hardly tell it to you,” he replied. 44 1 hardly 
know how to let you know what it is !” 

44 Have the detectives traced you?” she asked anx- 
iously. 

‘ 4 No. The news I have to tell you is almost worse 
than that.” 

44 Have you lost your money ?” 

44 No. I am as rich to-day as 1 ever was. But you 
and I must part !” 

4t Part !” she cried, 44 what do you mean ? You say 


221 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


that you still have your wealth, that you have not yet 
been round out. Why, then, must we part ?” 

“ Not part altogether,” he said, still trying to tem- 
porize, “ not altogether ; but our constant companion- 
ship must cease, and you must live away from me.” 

“ Why ?” The modulation of her voice showed her 
incredulity. 

Because — because I am to be married.” 

She grew very pale and he noted it, and thought it 
was because of her regret. 

“ To whom ?” she a$ked at last. 

“ To Miss Egerton.* 

“ Ah !” she muttered ; “ to her. Then you throw me 
over for her, do you ?” 

“Don’t put it that way,” he remonstrated. “I 
would not discard you entirely. But I only ask3 r ou to 
live apart from me — for a while.” 

“ And this,” she cried indignantly, “ this is the out- 
come of all your promises and protestations ! Why 
did you not leave me as you found me, happ3 r with 
Randolph. Why give me this one glance at the world 
of pleasure, and then shut its gates forever against 
me ?” 

He was silent, for he knew not what to say. 

“ Have you forgotten .your promises,” she resumed, 
“ have you forgotten that you promised to make me 
your wife ? No,” she continued, as she saw that he 
was about to speak, “ no, I do not ask you to fulfill 
that promise. I never have — I never will — for I would 
not be your wife. But you promised me wealth, and 
now, in one short year you break that promise. What 
could I do, cast penniless out into the world, a stran- 
ger in a strange land, having few friends, not knowing 
how to earn my own living ? Do you think that I 
shall tamely consent ? No, I will let the world know 
what manner of man you are.” 

A great fear possessed him, lest she should do what 
she threatened, but he replied : 

“ You would not do that. Who would believe you?” 

“ The whole world,” she answered, “ the whole 
world. It is ever ready to believe evil of anyone. Do 
you think that the detectives would neglect to follow 
such a clue ?” 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


225 


“ But the consequences to yourself, Lillian ?” 

“ What care I for them ? At least I shall not starve 
in prison, as I should at large in the world.” 

“ Starve ! Who talked of your starving ? I cannot 
give you all my wealth, hut you shall still have much 
of it.” 

She looked at him in astonishment. 

“ Have I been unjust?” she said. “ I thought you 
meant to let me go out penniless.” 

“ No ! no !” he answered eagerly. “ If you thought 
that you wronged me. I will gladly make you an 
allowance that will let you live in comfort. All that I 
meant was that personally we must live apart.” 

She eyed him keenly as she inquired, “You will 
make me an allowance ? How much ?” 

Now that she understood him her anger vanished. 
If he would make her an ample allowance she would go 
away without a regret. These thoughts passed rap- 
idly through her brain as she spoke and she became 
cool and resolved to exact from him all that she could. 

“ I will give you three thousand dollars a year,” he 
said. 

She thought a minute. “ That is not enough,” she 
said. “ Settle one hundred thousand dollars on me — 
the interest on that is only six thousand dollars — and I 
will go away and trouble you no more.” 

“ One hundred thousand dollars !” he exclaimed. 
“Oh, no ! That is too much !” 

“Then I will stay,” Lillian answered calmly. 
“ And if you neglect me I will tell yqpr secret.” 

“Oh, Lillian! Lillian!” he cried, “where is your 
love for me ?” 

“ Who spoke of love,” she replied. “ You wish me 
to release you from your promises, that is all ; and I 
told you my terms. "One hundred thousand dollars is 
the price of your freedom. Settle that amount on me 
and you are free— refuse, and I will still hold you as 
my slave.” 

He paced nervously up and down the floor but at 
last stopped and faced her. 

“Be it so !” he said. “To-morrow I will seek a 
lawyer and have the papers drawn up.” 

“ And I, too, will have my lawyer to see that all is 


226 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


rig*ht,” she replied. “Then I will say farewell, and 
you shall never hear of me again.” 

Blie rose and left the room and he saw no more of 
her that day. 

The deed of gift was drawn up and the money was 
deposited in an English hank in trust for Lillian. She 
was well content. 

Foerster had stipulated thaf she should leave Paris, 
and as soon as the papers had been signed she traveled 
to London. There she stayed until she heard that 
Foerster and Alice Egerton were married ; then she 
determined to return to New York. 

During her absence she had often thought of Ran- 
dolph and had wondered what he was doing. Since she 
had been in London, he had been more frequently in her 
thoughts, and she determined that if he was poor, she 
would, with her money, start him again in life. It 
was such thoughts as these that decided her return to 
America. 

As Foerster said farewell to Lillian and saw the train 
which bore her away roll out of the station, he felt a 
great load had been taken off his mind. With her 
departure the last obstacle in the way of his union 
with Alice Egerton seemed to be removed, and the 
future looked bright and hopeful. While Lillian re- 
mained with him she was a perpetual reminder of his 
past life, but now he could forget it at times and live 
only in the present and for the future. And never 
does the present seem so great, so glorious, so well 
worth living, as \$ien a man loves and loves success- 
fully. 

The first step Lillian took on arriving at New York 
was to consult a lawyer upon her own legal standing. 
She did not know how far the law would regard her 
flight as a crime, and so she caused a supposititious 
case to be made up and submitted it to the Hon. Ben- 
jamin Hume for his opinion. He saw at once that the 
case which she had put to him was the case of the 
woman who had fled with the absconding teller of the 
Specie Payment Bank, but nevertheless he gave her 
his opinion that she was not in danger from the law, 
and only laughed inwardly as he pocketed his fee. 
But as he never betrayed the confidence of his clients, 
no third party ever knew that she consulted him. 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


Her anxiety as to her own legal position being thus 
set at rest, Lillian began to arrange for a meeting with 
Willie Randolph. She recognized now that she had 
really loved him and believed that in the days gone by 
he had loved her. But she was in doubt whether his 
love had survived the shock of her leaving him or 
whether it had died out during her absence. She was 
afraid that if he knew that she was rich, he might not 
be truthful in disclosing the real condition of his feel- 
ings towards her, so she decided that she would ap- 
pear before him as a poor woman and not tell him of 
her riches until she discovered that he still loved 
her. 

In pursuance of this plan, she took a modest room 
in a cheap hotel and sent him a note, merely stating 
that a lady desired to consult him on some matters of 
business. She had found his name in the directory 
and dispatched the letter to his business address. By 
the next mail she received his answer stating that he 
would call upon her the following evening. She sent 
him a short note in reply that she would receive him 
at that time and then nervously awaited his coming. 

She had sternly repressed her desire to appear 
before him in some of her pretty Parisian gowns and 
and donned a well-worn traveling dress which had 
done good service on railways and steamers. Still 
she would not have been feminine if she had not added 
to it some few slight touches of color here and there to 
relieve its plainness. She would like to have burst 
upon his sight, decked in her richest costume, with the 
jewels which Foerster had given her, flashing upon her 
arms and neck, but she knew that if she did this she 
could not make the test she wished. 

As the hour drew near at which he was to come she 
grew more nervous. She listened to the steps of the 
passers-by in the hall, sure that she would recognize his 
footfall when she heard it. He was very prompt, for 
as the clock struck the hour the hall boy knocked at 
her door and handed her a card with his name upon 
it, and her heart beat as she recgonized his familiar 
handwriting. She bade the hall boy bid the gentle- 
man come up, and listened till she heard his footsteps 
in the hall — it seemed to her that they were heavier 
than they used to be in the olden time. 


228 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


He knocked, and disguising- her voice she called : 

“Come in.” 

He entered and closed the door, hut stood holding 
the handle in his hand, for he knew as he looked upon 
her that the woman before him was Lillian. 

She scanned his face eagerly, striving to gather from 
its expression some idea of his feelings, but his aston- 
ishment hid them, whatever they were. 

She was the first to speak. Advancing towards 
him with her hands extended, she said : 

“You have not forgotten me ?” 

His hand left its hold of the door-knob, and grasped 
her hand. Then as if unconscious of his acts, he bent 
down and kissed her. 

“Is this a dream ?” he said, still holding her hand 
and gazing earnestly at her as if he half expected that 
she would fade away out of his sight, “ is this a dream, 
or are 3 T ou really Lillian ?” 

“ I am really Lillian,” she answered leading him to 
a sofa. “ Sit down and tell me what you have been 
doing since I have been away.” 

“ No,” he replied, “ but tell where you have been.” 

“Well, I will,” she responded ; and then she told 
him how she had fled with Foerster. “ But he has 
cast me off, and I have come back to you. Will you 
take me ?” 

“ Take you back? Of course I will,” he cried, his 
face beaming with happiness. “ We will forget that 
you have beenawa3 r , and live the old days over again.” 

She gave him a glance of infinite gratitude as she 
continued : 

“ But I am poor again. Poorer than before,” he 
said smiling at her, “ for I have no one to take care of 
m3 7 money for me.” 

“ You are not 3^et in the bank, then ?” 

“ Yes, nominally I am, but I get no salar3 r . The 
bank is doing no business ; and during the suit be- 
tween the receiver and the corporation whose coupons 
we paid, everything is at a standstill.” 

“ Do 3 r ou live in the old flat yet ?” 

“I have not lived there since — but I forgot; we 
were not to mention that 3 r ou had been away — I board 
now in a cheap boarding-house in Tenth street, But 
>ve will hire a cheap flat now,” 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


229 


“ Ancl what has become of Scrappie ? 

“ Ah, he is still with me. He is getting* old and fat, 
though. I can give him only a little exercise — too 
little, I fear.” 

“ Ho you think he would recognize me ?” 

“ Recognize you ? Of course, he would.” 

“ I long to see him. You will bring him here to- 
morrow, will you not?” 

“ I will bring him in the morning before I go down 
town, and you can keep him for the day.” 

“ And now,” Lillian said, “ I want you to tell me all 
about the failure of the bank. Foerster told me much, 
but I want to hear your story.” 

So Randolph told her the whole history of the bank's 
trouble : told her how Erolt had paid out the counter- 
feits ; how they had been arrested and confined in 
jail ; how Hume, Howell & Metzstein had been their 
lawyers ; how the directors had met ; how the cash- 
ier’s clothes had been found ; how the detectives had 
searched in vain for Foerster until many people were 
of the opinion that he had really committed suicide ; 
how the receiver had been appointed, and how Erolt 
and himself had been set free. He told her all that 
had happened, and as Lillian listened, she kneAv that 
the cashier had told her many falsehoods, and hidden 
from her many things that were true. 

“ But now,” Randolph said, “now that we know 
where Foerster is, we must inform the detectives and 
let them nab him.” 

“Ho! no!” Lillian cried, “you must promise me 
never to say one word of his whereabouts.” 

“ And let him live in clover over all Europe while 
I suffer here because of his crime ? Ho indeed, not 
much ! That’s not the kind of hairpin I am !” 

“ But you must promise me,” Lillian insisted. 
“You must promise me!” 

Randolph looked at her suspiciously. 

“ Why are you so anxious to shield him ?” he said. 
“ Is it possible that you love him ?” 

“Love him? Ho!” Lillian answered, indignantly. 
“But I promised him. I did indeed; and you must 
promise me !” 

“I cannot see why I should.” 

“ Promise this to please me. Promise, it as an of- 


230 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


fering to our renewed friendship. Do not deny me the 
first thing* I have asked since we have been re-unit- 
ed.” 

“Then I will promise,” Randolph said. “I will 
forget what you have told me ; no one will hear it 
from my lips.” 

“ Then I will tell you something which I have kept 
back,” Lillian said. “ I am not as poor as I led you 
to believe. I am rich ; I have an income of five or six 
thousand dollars a year.” 

“ What !” Randolph looked at her incredulously. 

“ Yes,” she repeated, “ I would not separate from 
Foerster until he settled a hundred thousand dollars 
on me. It was invested in London, in trust for me, 
in first-class American railroad bonds. You will for- 
give me for hiding it from you, will you not?” 

The only reply Randolph made to her was to im- 
print a kiss upon her brow. 

“You will be poor no longer.” Lillian said. “ From 
this day my income will be yours. It will be enough, will 
it not, to start you afresh i4 some paying business?” 

“ Yes, it is enough, but it is his money, and I would 
not touch a penny of it !” 

“ It is not his money; it is mine. I earned it when 
I left you to go with him. I earned it by keeping si- 
lence as to his whereabouts. I earned it b} r aiding 
him to elude the detectives.” 

“But it is the money that he stole from the bank, 
and I will not touch it.” 

“ It is not the bank’s money,” she replied. “ He 
told me that most of that was hidden somewhere in 
Hew York; but he knew that the bank would have 
to fail, and so he sold the market short — is that not 
what you call it ? He made more than a million dol- 
lars by that speculation. This is part of what he 
made in that way.” 

“ Still it is his money. I would not be indebted to 
him for a penny.” 

“It is not his, it is mine ; and if there is any in- 
debtedness, it is to me. I will lend you what you 
want, and you can pay it back to me.” 

“ Well * Well !” Randolph said, “ we will talk the 
matter over later on.” 

He c^me back early the next morning bringing 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


231 


Scrappie with him, and the doggie recognized her at 
once, and spent the whole day in canine attempts to 
show his joy. To be sure he had some preparation 
for it, for all the waj r over from his hoarding house, 
Randolph had kept saying to him, “Missy, Scrappie ! 
Hie on to Missy !” and Scrappie had cocked his head 
up at his master, and ran about smelling of the gar- 
ments of each female passer-by. 

Lillian was not idle during the day. Before Ran- 
dolph left her in the morning, it was arranged that he 
should call for her and take her to a restaurant for 
dinner, for they could not dine together at the same 
hotel, without exciting comment. When he returned 
Lillian said to him : 

“ I have already hired a flat.” 

“Indeed ! You were expeditious,” Randolph replied. 
“ Where is it ?” 

“On the corner of Twenty-sixth street and Sixth 
avenue.” 

“ What ! our old flat ?” 

“Yes. And to-morrow you must take a holiday, 
and go with me to choose the carpets and fuuiture.” 

“ All the old tilings have been sold ; what a pity.” 

“No matter for that,” Lillian cried gayly ; “did 
you ever see a woman who was not glad to have new 
things about her ?” 

Lillian and Randolph, happy in their reunion, took 
but little thought of the outside world. The little 
flat was refurnished, and Lillian took the greatest; 
pleasure in making it as nearly like it’s former appear- 
ance as might be. For some time she had no thought 
of anyone, save Randolph ; nor he of anyone, except 
herself, and all their talk was about each other, and 
all their anxiety was to know the other’s past. But 
when weeks had passed and he knew how she had 
passed her days away from him, and he had told her 
all that he had done while she was absent, the remem- 
brance of other times began to assert itself, and Lillian 
began to inquire after friends whom she had known 
in other days. 

One evening she said to Randolph, “ What became 
of Arthur Erolt ?” 

“I have not seen him for some time,” he replied. 
“ He gave up being a real estate broker, some time 


232 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


ago, and took to literary work. From time to time 
he used to drop in to see* me, he would come and dine 
with me sometimes. His friends seemed to have gone 
back on him somehow.” 

“ I should like to see him again. He was always 
so jolly and cheerful.” 

‘•You would not find him so any longer. Some- 
thing, whether the outrageous charge against him, 
or his mother’s death, or his sweetheart’s defection, 
I do not know ; something has taken all the gayety 
out of him. I imagine, too, that he is very poor, that 
he makes very little by his writing. I offered to lend 
him some money once, but he refused, because he said 
he saw no hope of repaying me.” 

“ If I could only find where he is I wmuld help 
him. 

‘‘That I do not know. He was lodging in Tenth 
street somewhere, but he left that place, and I have 
not seen him since.” 

The conversation wandered off to other topics, and 
Erolt was forgotten for a time. But some days after- 
wards Lillian had occasion to go down to one of those 
streets which lead off from the Bowery. She was 
looking for a woman who came once a week to do the 
washing in the flat, but who had not come on the last 
day when she was due and Lillian was therefore afraid 
she was ill. She was on a search for this woman’s 
lodgings, meaning if she found her very sick to send 
her to the hospital. Scrappie was with her and as 
they gained the lower part of the Bowery, her atten- 
tion was called to a man who came suddenly out of a 
pawnbroker’s shop, just ahead of her. She might 
not have noticed him, if Scrappie had not darted 
ahead, and rapturously fawned upon him. 

The man’s back was towards her, and she could not 
see his face, but she saw that his clothes, though 
carefully darned and patched, were threadbare and 
thin. Everything about him betokened extreme pov- 
erty. She did not recognize his figure, but he was 
evidently an old friend, for Scrappie seemed glad to 
see him. As she hurried forward, she saw him stoop 
down, and pat Scrappie, and then look around as if 
to see who the dog was with. 

As he turned his head she recognized him as Arthur 


OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 


233 


Erolt. But oh, how changed ! His cheeks were sunk- 
en in and he had almost a ghostly appearance, so thin 
and pale he was. He looked like a starving man. 

She stood still with amazement. Had Arthur Erolt 
come to this pass ? Were those the only clothes that 
he— who used to be so neat and so particular in his 
dress — had to wear ? Had unsatisfied hunger brought 
his once strong frame down to such a state of emacia- 
tion that he was more like a living skeleton than a 
man ? She had been prepared to find him poor and 
altered, but not so changed as this. 

She hurried to the corner of the alley and looked 
down it, but the delay caused by the shock of her sur- 
prise had been ample for his escape and he was nowhere 
to be seen. She stood for a moment irresolute what to 
do, then calling Scrappie to her, she turned back and 
entered the pawnbroker’s shop. 

“ There was a gentleman here a few minutes ago,” 
she said to the hook-nosed Jew behind the counter. 
“What did he pawn ?” 

He looked keenly at her and then he answered, “Vy 
vould you know ?” 

“No matter why I would know,” she responded. 
“You must show me what he pawned.” 

He took her evidently to be a female detective, for 
without further delay he produced for her inspection a 
gold scarf-pin. 

“ How much did you give him on it ?” she asked as 
she examined it. 

The Jew turned to his books as he replied, “fifty 
cents — halef a toller.” 

“Half a dollar!” she exclaimed, “why it is worth 
ten dollars at the least. What was the number of his 
ticket and the address he gave?” 

He gave her the number, and she wrote it down on 
her tablets. 

“ It vas stholen ?” he said to her, interrogatively. 

She made no answer but turned and left the store. 
Her former errand was forgotten. The plight of Ar- 
thur Erolt filled her mind to the exclusion of every- 
thing else. She was in doubt what to do, so she stopped 
a passing car and rode down to Randolph’s office. He 
was not in and she went home determined to ask his 
advice that evening. 


234 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


But 'Randolph did not return that night. Business 
had called him out of town and he sent her a telegram 
saying that he had gone to Boston for several days. 

She pondered long what she should do. Instinctively 
she felt that Erolt lived somewhere in the neighborhood 
where he had disappeared, probably in the alleyway. 
But the neighborhood was too bad for her to personally 
go in search of him. She realized that he deeply felt 
the difference in his life — that he wished to hide from 
all who had known him in former days. 

In her dilemma she had recourse to one of the many 
detective agencies which abound in the city, and a man 
was detailed to find for her where Erolt lived. In two 
days he reported to her, and she found that her sur- 
mises were correct, and that Erolt lived in the alley- 
way. Still she was puzzled how to extend aid to him. 
Had Randolph been home she would have sent him, 
but he was away. In her doubt she remembered to 
have heard that Somes Temple was a firm friend of 
Erolt’s. She did not know him — did not know but what 
he too had found Arthur’s poverty too great a strain for 
friendship’s bond to stand, but she knew of no one else 
to go to, and she determined to lay the circumstances 
of the case before him, and to ask his assistance. 

She did not know his address, but she easity found 
it in the directory, and the morning of the fifth day 
after she had seen Erolt found her in Somes’ office. 

44 Is this Mr. Temple?” she said as she was shown 
into his private office. 

4 4 That is my name,” he replied. 

44 You will please excuse my asking, but are you a 
friend of Mr. Erolt’s ?” 

4 4 Arthur Erolt ? Y es. Do you know anything about 
him ?” 

44 You do not know where he is ?” 

44 No, I do not. Can you tell me ?” 

Then Lillian told him how she had seen Erolt, and 
described his appearance, and Somes buried his face in 
his hands as she proceeded, and groaned aloud. 

44 1 feared that he was suffering,” he said, when she 
had finished. 44 He would not take the aid I offered 
him, and I have lost track of him-” 

But I have found him !’* Lillian cried, 4 4 and that is 

why I hay§ called m you to-day, I know where he 




EROLT* S death. 

lives, and I have come to ask you to seek him out and 
save his life. I knew him in years gone by, when I was 
poor. I am rich now, and he must be made to accept 
money for his daily wants.” 

“That, also, must be my privilege,” Somes said; 
“he was my friend — he is my friend yet. Put up your 
purse. I will give him all the money he needs.” 

“ It matters not which of us gives the money,” she 
replied, “ so long as he gets it.” 

‘ ‘ I will look him up.” 

“ To-day?” 

“ Yes, this afternoon.” 

“It will not do to delay,” she cried imperatively. 
“ He is starving. Do not allow this day to pass with- 
out finding him, for to-morrow may be too late.” 

“ Do you really think it is as bad as that ?” 

‘ ‘ It must be, or he would not have pawned his moth- 
er’s gift.” 

She left the address with Somes, and went up town, 
confident that Arthur Erolt would now receive the suc- 
cor of which he evidently stood so much in need. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

erolt’s death. <s '* 

It was now three days since Arthur Erolt had 
tasted food. The fifty cents obtained from the pawn- 
broker had all been spent ; twenty- five of it had gone 
to his landlord, the remainder had purchased him 
bread on which he fed for two days. He felt faint 
and weak — oh, so very weak — too weak to leave his 
room and beg for alms on the street-corners as he 
almost felt like doing. So weak, that all through the 
day he lay upon the bed without strength enough to 
rise. 

He was not alone, for his thoughts wandered, and 
scenes from his past life rose before him, and the room 
seemed peopled with familiar faces. Yet, weak as his 
mind was, he realized that he was dying — knew that 
his struggle with the world was nearing its close and 
tyat a few hours would end his mortal life. At times 


m 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


his mind would become conscious of the reality of his 
surrounding's, and he thought sadly over his fate ; 
until the “ fever called d3 T ing,” raised again the fair- 
est scenes before his eyes, and he sank in lethargic 
semi-consciousness. 

The morning sun beat down on the bare roof close 
over his head, until his miserable room seemed like 
a furnace. All the foul odors of the street and of the 
crowded tenement seemed to permeate the atmos- 
phere, and the shouts and cries of the children, the 
rumble of the wagons, and the cries of the street- 
venders, fell upon his ear in vague, dull, torturing 
blows of sound. 

About two o’clock in the afternoon, the sky became 
overcast with clouds, and a faint breeze from the 
west swept over the hot, scorched city. Erolt woke 
from one of his trances, and saw that the bright glare 
of the sunlight no longer streamed into his room. 
He wondered if it could be evening, and the sun be 
set. He felt a great longing for a breath of purer air. 
He knew that there was a stool in the corner near 
the window, and he thought that he would like to sit 
there, where a few stray puffs of the breeze might 
reach him. He strove to sit up, and after many 
efforts he succeeded, but he could not stand erect foV 
weakness. On his hands and knees he crawled slowly 
over the floor to where the stool was placed. Slowly 
and painfully, he drew himself up and sat upon it, 
resting against the walls which formed the angle of 
the corner. 

As he sat there, his eyes closed for very weakness, 
a sound of music struck upon his ear. A peripatetic 
German band had stopped before the tenement house, 
and had begun to play. They had chosen that quaint, 
old Scotch tune, “ Oh dear, what can the matter be ? 
Johnnie’s so long at the fair!” 

The first few notes had not been played before Erolt 
recognized the melody. It was the tune of the song 
with which his mother had sometimes sung him to 
sleep when he was a child. 

The music stopped with a clash and a bang, and as 
his spirit returned to his emaciated frame, the happy 
memories fled away ; and he sighed, as he contrasted 
the direful present with those happy days, and recalled 


Erolt’s death. 23? 

the hi^li hopes of fame and honor which youthful 
ambition had prognosticated. 

Again the music of the hand rose up into the air, 
and again it bore his spirit away ; this time the musi- 
cians essayed a selection from one of Mozart's masses. 
And as the sound floated upon Arthur Erolt’s ears, 
he seemed to become a boy again ; the brassy horns 
and trombones breathed forth the sweet, pulsating 
melodies of the great organ at St. Sulpice. He was a 
boy again— sitting in the old familiar pew in church. 
Familiar forms and faces were all about him. The 
quaint carving of the stone, the rich coloring of the 
windows, all were before his eyes, and he saw his 
father's form in the chancel, clad in the white robes 
of a priest. Then the voices of the choir mingled with 
the throbbing notes of the organ as the music rose 
and echoed through the arches overhead in a pean of 
rejoicing, or sank low in some piteous, plaintive lament 
or supplication. 

Again the music ceased, and the magnificence of 
the church faded into the squalor of his own small 
room. 

The band moved further up the street, and halting 
there, began to play a waltz. Erolt could hear clearly 
what it was. How well he remembered it. It recalled 
the time when he had left college to take Sarah 
Sprague to a ball in New York. The lights of the 
ball-room seemed to glow before him ; he seemed to be 
threading with her the mazes of the merry dance, 
while their feet kept time to the merry music ; his arm 
was clasped around her waist, and her hand rested 
upon his shoulder. He saw again the glitter of the 
diamond in the ring upon her finger, and he thought, 
as he had thought then, that her eyes were far 
brighter than the jewel. He smelled the perfume of 
the roses which she Avore at her waist — roses that he 
had sent to her — he remembered that she had dropped 
one, and that he had picked it up and treasured it, 
until it had fallen into dust. 

But the music ceased, and Erolt aAvoke again to his 
Avretchedness. 

Further up the street the band moved and began to 
play once more ; this time, a funeral march. 

Again Erolt’s spirit soared back to the past, and he 


238 


THE UNPARDONABLE BIN. 


was at his father’s funeral. The solemn church 
seemed yet mor solemn. Black bands twined around 
the columns, black streamers crossed the gilded organ 
pipes, the pulpit and desks were draped in black, and 
in the chancel, before the sable covered altar, stood 
the coffin covered with velvet pall. The organ had 
played that same funeral march as the coffin was car- 
ried down the aisle. 

Again the past fled when the music ceased, and the 
present came back again. There were tears in Erolt's 
eyes as he murmured : 

“ Oh my father ! My father ! Why, has your son 
been brought as low as this ?” 

The clouds became darker and denser until at 
last they shed their grateful showers on the hot 
parched earth. The cool moisture of the down-falling 
drops seemed to refresh and invigorate Erolt as he sat 
by the window, breathing in the rain-washed air ; but 
soon it chilled his weakened frame and he crawled back 
to his bed. 

Yet the strains of the music kept running through 
his head, the days gone by kept coming back to him 
in swift succession ; and when, at last, he slept he 
dreamed. 

He seemed to see a ladder stretching from earth to 
heaven ; and at its base in letters of bright gold was 
written its name : “ The Ladder of Friendship. ” 

He saw forms standing around the ladder, — figures 
of children and older people — and he recognized him- 
self as a little child that had one foot planted in the 
lowermost round. 

The ladder was broad, and as he climbed slowly up, 
round by round, he saw young and old ascending with 
him or smiling down encouragement to him from 
aloft. 

Then his dream seemed to change. He was no long- 
er a looker-on, but he himself, in the guise of a child — 
the same child that he had recognized as himself — was 
clinging to the ladder. Still he climbed upwards. 
Years passed as he trod the rounds ; old faces faded 
from among the ranks of those who bore him company ; 
new figures stood by his side ; they came and went in 
endless succession, bearing the likenesses of old play- 
mates of his childhood, old schoolmates of his youth- 


erolt’s death. 


239 


ful years, friends of his early manhood — friends for 
times of festivity, and friends for times of mourning. 

The ladder grew steeper which had heen so easy to 
climb in years gone by— steeper and narrower, and the 
faces by his side grew fewer. He looked down and 
saw the ladder stretching beneath him ; he saw 
rounds from which erstwhile friends had fallen while 
they were wet with his tears, and from which his own 
feet might have slipped if those true friends around 
him had not dried them with the sunshine of their 
smiles. 

Ear away seemed the base of that ladder as he look- 
ed down at it — dim and indistinct in the far distance ; 
and looking upwards to discern to what goal it led, he 
saw that there were clouds which enfolded the upper 
rounds in their gray mystery. Slowly those clouds 
came nearer to him ; he could not tell whether he was 
climbing upward towards them, or whether they were 
descending to meet him. He seemed to hear among 
them voices of friends w r ho had gone from him, but 
he could not tell if they were real voices or only the 
echoes of his own memory — only the sounds which 
his own heart spoke, and which the clouds had caught 
up and echoed back from their mighty hollows. 

Then for a moment low breaths of perfumed air 
wafted the clouds aside, and showed him a glimpse of 
golden glory far above. Bnt the winds died away, and 
the gray mists of the clouds wrapped him around as 
if in a shroud, shutting him off from the fair sympathy 
and companionship of those who climbed the Ladder of 
Friendship with him. 

But not from all friends — not from all. Out of the 
clouds came a voice which even the fading faculties of 
life could not force into forgetfulness ; out of the mists 
a face appeared, growing more distinct as the mo- 
ments passed by — a face which even the shadow of 
Death could not* hide within its deep obscurity— the 
face and voice of Somes Temple. 

* * * * * * * * * 

That afternoon Somes had left his office earlier than 
usual, intending to find the address which Lillian had 
given him, and to insist that Erolt should accept the 
aid which he intended to offer. The sudden bursting 
of the shower led him to take refuge in the office oi u 


240 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


friend until its first violence was spent. Then he con- 
tinued his way up town to the narrow alley where 
Erolt lived. 

Somes could not repress a shudder as he entered the 
dirty lane. The rain had done its best to wash the 
street clean, but the filth had choked up the gutters 
and the sewers, and deep pools of foul black water had 
formed over the pavement. He found the house, whose 
number Lillian had given him, and he entered. A 
crowd of ragged, unkempt children filled the doorway, 
but made way to let him pass. He stopped and asked 
them if they knew if Mr. Erolt lived there. Some an- 
swered that they did not, others replied by ribald or 
profane remarks, and others yet gazed at him in stupid 
amazement. 

He passed them by and knocked at the first door that 
he came to. A frow 7 sy woman opened it for him, her 
arms still wet w T ith the suds of her w r ashtub. Somes 
inquired of her, but she knew no one by the name of 
Erolt. 

“ But,” she said, as he Tvas turning away, in doubt 
what to do next, “ there’s a poor* gentleman upstairs 
on the top floor; perhaps it’s him you w r ant.” 

Somes thanked her, and ascended the dark, rickety 
staircase cautiously, lest he should trip or fall. 

“ Oh why,” he thought, as he mounted flight after 
flight, “ w 7 hy did not Erolt let me know 7 that he w 7 as so 
poor that he must choose such a place as this to dwell 
in? How 7 gladly would I have denied myself, that he 
might live elsewhere !” 

Up SQven flights of stairs Somes w r ent, and his heart 
grew sadder and sadder as he thought of w r hat suffer- 
ing Erolt must have endured before he made this place 
his home. But the top floor w 7 as reached at last, and 
Somes could go no higher. The atmosphere was vile. 
All the foul odors of the house seemed to be concen- 
trated here. 

The hall w 7 as dimly lighted, but Somes saw 7 a door 
before him, and he knocked gently on it. There was 
no answer. He knocked again — louder — still there 
was no response. He hesitated a moment, then gently 
tried the door. It w 7 as unfastened. He opened it and 
walked in. The room seemed empty, but he w 7 as 
startled at its aspect. The naked rafters of the roof 


erolt’s death. 


241 


formed the ceiling overhead. The plaster had fallen 
from the walls, leaving great patches bare. The panes 
of the window were broken, letting in the damp, chilly 
air, and the noxious vapors and noises from the street 
below. The rough board floor was wet with the drip- 
ping of the leaky roof. 

All these things Somes noticed as he looked hastily 
about him, but they were forgotten instantly, when 
his glance rested on a human form that seemed to lie 
in sleep amid the rags which were thinly piled upon the 
rickety bedstead. Could this be Arthur Erolt? He 
stooped down and looked more closely at the face which 
rested, white and wan, upon the rags. It was the face 
of the friend for whom he searched. Unconsciously 
Somes started back with an exclamation of horror at 
the sight of the wondrous change which that face had 
undergone since he had last seen it. He seemed to 
grow faint and sick with sudden pity. 

Arthur Erolt lay stretched upon his bed. The once 
strong frame had wasted almost to a skeleton. The 
skin had turned to that ivory whiteness that marked 
the ebbing away of life. The pinched and shriveled 
lips were shrunken back from the teeth, which glared 
white and ghastly through the gloom. The eyes, deep 
in their bony sockets, still gleamed with a feverish 
light, and a scarcely perceptible movement of the chest 
told that he still breathed. He lay perfectly quiet, 
without strength to move, but his eyes were open, and 
with them he gazed at Somes with a passionate love. 
He was too weak to speak above a gentle whisper. 

“Oh, Erolt! Erolt!” Somes cried, as soon as he 
could gain his voice, “ why did you not let me know ?” 

Faint and weak were the words that Erolt spoke — 
so faint, so weak, that Somes had to bend down closely 
over him to catch their meaning. 

“I could not beg, Somie, and it would have been 
begging-.” 

“ I have come to take you away,” Somes cried, 
“ away from all this filth and poverty. You will yet 
get well and strong.” 

A faint smile flickered for a moment from Erolt’s 
eyes, and he whispered so low that Somes could scarce- 
ly catch the words : 

(i Too late, Somie, too late.” 


2 12 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Somes sat down upon the wretched bed and took 
into his own strong*, friendly grasp, one of Erolt’sthin, 
wasted hands that lay outstretched upon the coverlet. 
He looked at it through the mist of his fast gathering 
tears. The shrunken veins were blue beneath the trans- 
parent skin, and the bones and muscles were clearly 
outlined. The hand was cold, and as Somes grasped 
it in his own warm hands, it sent a chill through them, 
down to his heart. 

His action roused the dying man, and called him 
back, for one moment, from the valley of death. With 
one supreme effort, the last that he would ever make 
on earth, Arthur Erolt closed his fingers around 
Somes’ hand, and, opening his eyes, said, in a voice 
low, yet clear and distinct : 

“ Somie, God bless you 

Then, without a sigh, he closed his eyes and fell 
asleep. And Somes, sitting by the bedside, dropped 
hot tears upon the cold hand that he held. 

Arthur Erolt was dead. 

He died as he had lived, pure in heart and mind. 
The one sole crime which he committed chanced to be 
the one sin which the world never forgives — the un- 
pardonable sin of poverty. 

But he was dead ! Stern, bitter and relentless had 
been the punishment which the world meted out for 
this unpardonable sin. All else the world would have 
condoned, — had he committed theft and retained 
his stolen wealth, the world would have forgotten 
that he had sinned. Had he been a rich adul- 
terer, the world would have raised him to high 
places of trust and honor. But he had lived and died 
poor, and the world had no pity and no justice for 
him. 

Now he was dead ! His soul had left this world and 
journeyed to another, wher6 rich men may not enter. 

Yes, he was dead ! The world had judged him ; but 
he had appealed now to the final judgment of God, and 
the poverty, which the world never pardoned, would 
be his passport into everlasting bliss. 

Riches, honor, wealth, power — these in the scales of 
the world weigh much ; but in the scales of Heaven, 
the smallest act of honor, charity, of kindness, by man 
to man, outweighs them .all, 


THE CASHIER RETURNS. 


m 


They buried him by the side of his mother, and 
Somes caused a slab of marble to be erected over 
his grave, bearing the simple statement of his name 
and the date of his birth and death. 

When they came to prepare his body for burial, 
they found upon the emaciated, shrunken breast, held 
by a cord which passed around his neck — a diamond 
ring. It was the ring he had given to Sarah Sprague, 
as a pledge of his undying love. This Somes took, and 
when the coffin was to be closed and sealed forever and 
aye, he tenderly and reverently placed it over the dead 
man’s heart. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE CASHIER RETURNS. 

John Foerster and Alice Egerton were man and 
wife. 

They spent their honeymoon in the gay cities of 
Europe, and in traveling into Egypt and Asia. But 
after a year of this life, their idleness began to pall 
upon them, and indefinite longings for an occupation 
began to creep upon Foerster. 

While Alice had been an unmarried heiress, she had 
found foreign society readily open for her. Poverty- 
stricken dowagers had sought to entangle her into an 
alliance with spendthrift sons. Needy nobles had offered 
their “ hearts ” and titles in bargain for her coveted 
American dollars. Society had welcomed and courted 
her. But now there was a change. Though her 
beauty knew no diminution, and served to make her 
prominent wherever she went, there was no longer 
the same desire for her presence. Sisters who 
had previous^ sought her company, to push the for- 
tunes of brothers, no longer cared to contrast her 
beauty with their own. 

Foerster, too, began to grow tired of simply amusing 
himself, and to look forward with a shudder to the 
long life of exile that seemed to stretch before him. 

He said as much once to Douglas Egerton, and the 
latter answered : 

“ Yes, I have noticed for some time that you and 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


2U 


Alice have been growing restless. You ought to re- 
turn to America.” 

“But how can I ?” Foerster objected. “ I would 
like to go back, it is true, but not to spend my life in 
jail.” 

“It seems to me,” Egerton said, “that that will 
not be necessary.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Listen to me and I will .tell you. You know my 
past history — know the business that engaged me in 
Chicago. I never felt safe there. I always dreaded 
that I should some day be found out as a counterfeiter. 
But while this fear of discovery oppressed me, it did 
not unnerve me. I took every precaution that I could 
think of to protect myself, in case the truth should 
become known. In one way and another I made all 
the prominent officials indebted to me for favors. I 
persuaded judges and politicians to accept bribes, and 
then kept the evidence of their guilt safe where I might 
use it in my necess^. It took me years to accomplish 
this, but at last there was not one man, prominent or 
influential in politics or law that I did not control. 
No matter of what I might be accused, I was safe from 
personal harm.” 

“Such documents might be of use were you in 
jeopardy. How they can protect me I do not see.” 

“ I cannot tell, as yet, how far they might. They 
would have saved you had the Specie Payment Bank 
been in Chicago.” 

“Yes? But it was not. It was in New York.” 

“ Still the State courts have no jurisdiction over the 
offense of counterfeiting, nor of the offense of circulat- 
ing counterfeits. The United States courts alone have 
exclusive jurisdiction in such cases.” 

“ But could not the State court try me for embez- 
zling funds of the bank ?” 

“ It may be that they could, but you and I are rich 
enough to make that loss of the bank good, are we 
not ?” 

“Yes. I have not spent more than fifty thousand 
dollars of that money taken from the bank. The in- 
come from my stock speculations has been more than 
enough for my needs.” 

“ Then, if that money were returned, the silence of 


THE CASHIER RETURNS. 


245 

the State officials could he easily bought. The only 
question in my mind is whether we could persuade the 
United States not to prosecute.” 

“ The case seems almost hopeless to me. How can 
we find out ?” 

“ Some one must go over there.” 

“ Who ? Would it be safe for me to go ?” 

“ You f No, indeed ! I will go. It will not be the 
first time that I have bribed a district attorney.” 

“ Have you any plan on which you mean to work ?” 

“ No, not yet. I have a dim and ill-defined idea in 
m3" mind, that all the power of those Chicago politi- 
cians must be exerted in } r our favor with the United 
States officials. Had the matter remained unknown, 
I should feel sure of success, but its publicity was 
so great— the circumstances were so widety known 
and commented on, that it will be a bold thing for 
the law officials to ignore it. Ah ! if there were onl}" 
some excuse that we might urge, so that public 
opinion might not insist upon }"our conviction.” 

“ What excuse can there be ?” 

“ I do not know as }"et. Perhaps on my journe} r 
across the ocean something will occur to me and aid 
me to formulate my plans.” 

“ You speak as if 3 r our trip w T as a settled thing.” 

“It is. I have determined upon it. It can do no 
harm, and it may do much good. Here I can do no- 
thing. There I ma}" be able to do something, at least. 
Tell me one thing, however. How was it that the 
president was not there ?” 

“Why I told 3 T ou ! Don’t }"ou remember those silk 
stockings ?” 

“Yes. But how did the}" affect his absence ?” 

Foerster laughed a loud, merr}" laugh. 

“ WI13", you see,” he said, “the Jew who sold them 
was in m3" pa}", and I had provided him with them.” 

“Well?” 

“ Innocent as they looked, they w T ere really deadl}". 
I had soaked them in strong solutions of aconic. You 
may easil}" imagine that their feet would pain them as 
soon as they became warm or damp.” 

“ Who knows of this ?” 

“ Only myself. The Jew is in South America, but 
even if he were in New York he would not recognize 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


246 

me, for I was disguised when I employed him. Be- 
sides, whatever he may have thought , he did not know 
that the stockings were poisoned. ” 

A week later, and the good steamship “ Ville de 
Lyons” bore Douglas Egerton westward towards 
America. He was alone, for the presence of his wife 
would have distracted his thoughts, and he had need 
to think deeply over the task he had set himself. He 
felt confident that if this had been an ordinary case of 
wrong doing, the influence of the Chicago politicians 
would have enforced an ignoring of it ; and it would do 
so now, if only an excuse for the crime could be found. 
Great as the crime was, Judge Bret, the Governor of 
the State, the United States senators, must, perforce, 
exert their influence as he requested, for they one and 
all had shared in the profits of that crime ; they one 
and all had joined him in selling the market short and 
profiting by the panic. If this was known, who would 
not believe that they had foreseen the panic, knowing 
its cause ? No one. He felt, therefore, that they 
must pay to him the price which he demanded for his 
silence, and that was the freedom of Foerster. It 
might not be necessary to threaten these eminent per- 
sonages with disclosure, but if it was, he was prepared 
to threaten. They would afterwards be his enemies, of 
course, but he had decided that if he was unsuccessful 
in accomplishing Foerster ’s return, he himself would 
thenceforward make his home abroad. But the excuse 
for the crime — what should it be ? Many an hour he 
paced up and down the deck of the vessel, striving to 
discover what excuse would be plausible, but when he 
landed in New York he had not discovered it. 

He spent two days in New York, and on the morn- 
ing of the third day he embarked for Chicago. As he 
sat in the Pullman car, he glanced over the morning 
paper. At all times the reports of crimes had been 
fascinating to him, but now he scanned them more 
eagerly than usual. , He read them over one after 
another — murders, rapes, thefts, assaults — the usual 
catalogue of horrors which the great dailies of the age 
print. Each and all had the same excuse — temporary 
insanity. 

The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the 
more it seemed to him that here was the plea on 


THE CASHIER RETURNS. 


247 


which Foerster might escape. Could it not be said 
that Foerster had been temporarily insane? What 
proof could be obtained ? Medical opinion could be 
bought, he knew, but was there no other evidence ? 
Yes. He almost laughed out loud as he thought of it. 
The hiding of the money in New York ! Would any 
one but a crazy man have failed to carry his money 
away with him ? 

It seemed to him now that the way had become clear 
to him. The money was to be returned, the United 
States district attorney was to be induced to receive 
the plea of temporary insanity on the evidence of the 
circumstances and the opinions of medical experts. 
Then Foerster could return. 

The plan became definite and tangible in his own 
mind. He knew now exactly what to strive for and he 
longed to arrive in Chicago and put it into action. 

First of all he wrote out a supposititious case to put 
to the medical experts, and the facts he stated there 
were in substance as follows : If a man who always 
has been noted for high probit} 7 ' and honor and who 
has suddenly been put into a position of great respon- 
sibility and entrusted with the care of a very large 
amount of specie; without apparent cause hides that 
sum of specie in a secret place and disappears without 
attempting to remove it ; what is his mental condi- 
tion ? 

This question was put to some dozen of famous ex- 
perts, and all answered to the same effect “ temporary 
or sudden insanity.” Some were short and concise in 
their answers, others surrounded their replies with a 
long string of medical terms and arguments, but one 
and all agreed on the answer “ temporary insanity.” 

While the doctors were delivering these opinions, 
Douglas Egerton found out from the bank the exact 
sum that had been taken, and from Foerster the place 
where it was hidden. Unknown to anyone he found 
this money, and added to it the amount necessary to 
restore it to its original sum and then replaced the 
whole in its hiding place to remain there until Foer- 
ster should return and give it up. 

Armed with the doctors’ opinions, he easily per- 
suaded his Chicago friends to exert their influence 
with the Department of Justice and to obtain a pledge 


24:8 


TIIE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


from the attorney general in Washington and the 
United States district attorney in New York, that if the 
money was returned and the opinions filed in the dis- 
trict attorney’s office a nolle prosequi would he entered 
in the case of the United States vs. John Foerster. 

Though the chronicling of these events takes but a 
few lines of this record, their consummation occupied 
many months. But the day arrived at last— and it 
was a happy day to Douglas Egerton — when he could 
telegraph to Foerster to come to New York. 

And Foerster came as swiftly as steam could carry 
him. Accompanied by the United States district at- 
torney, and by the receiver of the bank he went to 
where he had hidden the stolen money. It was counted, 
and found to be right; it was submitted to the govern- 
ment experts and found to be good and a nolle prose- 
qui was entered, and Foerster was acquitted of all 
blame. 

“Now,” said Douglas Egerton to his son-in-law 
when all this had been done; “ What will you do ?” 

“ I shall not decide,” he answered, “ until I have 
taken Alice’s advice, but I think I shall live in New 
York and become a Wall street speculator.” 

Great was the rejoicing among the creditors and 
stockholders of the Specie Payment Bank when it was 
known that the missing money' had been returned. 
The suits between the bank and the corporation were 
speedily settled, and the receiver was discharged. It 
was determined to continue business under the same 
officers, and Hamilton Pierpoint again resumed his 
dignified functions as president and Willie Randolph 
became the cashier. 

But the tide turned too late to benefit Arthur Erolt, 
for the grave would not give up its dead. 

Alice and her mother came to New York when 
Egerton and Foerster telegraphed them to come. 
Alice approved of Foerster’s plans, and her father be- 
gan to build for them a fine large house on Fifth Ave- 
nue. While it was building, they made their home in 
New Jersey, and Douglas Egerton and his wife stayed 
with them until the house was ready for occupancy. 

It had been announced that all the pretty things in 
the Chicago house would be carried to New York, and 
the workmen were busy packing, them for removal. 


THE EN £>. 


249 


But ere this had been accomplished, the watchman, 
passing* by one night, saw flames issuing from the win- 
dows, and before the engines arrived, Miss Staekle- 
furd’s and Douglas Egerton’s houses were a mass of 
flames. Miss Stacklefurd and her servants barely 
escaped with their lives ; nothing was saved from 
Douglas Egerton’s. When the sun rose the next 
morning, it looked down upon a heap of smouldering 
embers, twisted metal and crumbled brick. 

Both houses were insured and the companies prompt- 
ly paid the insurance moneys. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE END. 

When Randolph returned one day in February 
from downtown, he found Lillian weeping. 

“ What’s the matter ?” he asked in a tone of -sur- 
prise, for it was a new thing for her to be found cry- 
ing by herself. 

‘‘ Nothing!” Lillian answered with feminine incon- 
sistency, wiping her eyes and trying to repress her 
sobs. 

“ Nothing ?” Randolph said, standing by her side, 
and looking at her savagely. “ D — n you, tell me 
what you — what you are crying for !” 

She glanced up at him and saw that he had been 
drinking heavily. 

“ Oh, Willie !” she exclaimed reproachfully, “ you 
promised me that you would never drink again !” 

“ I don’t care if I did,” he answered crossly. “ Do 
you suppose that I care for any promise I made you ?” 

She looked at him in grief and surprise. 

“Why not, Willie ?” she said, “am I not your 
wife?” 

“ Not much you ain’t ?” 

“ What ?” 

He flung himself into a chair with a drunken laugh, 
and then with a sneer he said : 

“I’ve got no further use for you — you’d better go 
back to Foerste*. Do you think I want a wife that 


250 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


runs away with other men ? Not much ! You haven’t 
been a wife of mine for a long* while.” 

Her face grew very pale as a formless instinctive 
terror begun to creep over her heart. She knelt down 
by his side and said in pleading* tones : 

“ Oh, Willie, what do you mea n ? I have never seen 
you like this before — I have never heard you speak 
Jike this before. What does it mean ?” 

He turned to her with a malignant gleam in her 
eyes, as he replied : 

“ Did you think that while you were awaj r I was go- 
ing to sit down and patiently wait until you chose to 
come back ? If you did you were mistaken ! I got a 
divorce — that’s what I did — and you haven’t been my 
wife for a long while.” 

She rose and tottered back from him with a low cry 
of despair. 

“ I’m tired of you,” he said with a drunken sneer. 

She sank back into a chair, and placed her hand 
upon her heart, but she made no answer. He seized 
his ]}£it, and went noisily down the stairs out into the 
street, cursing like a mad man — as indeed drink has 
made him. 

As for her, she sat alone. The twilight faded 
and the room grew dark, while she sat there wrapped 
in despair darker than the night outside. Woeful 
were her thoughts, for remorse was conjuring up be- 
fore her pictures of the past. 

God and man despised her. The man she loved 
cared no longer for her. Her soul had been soiled and 
degraded, and there was no hope of its rising from the 
mire. A great loathing of herself took possession of 
her, a dread, sick feeling of despair wrapped her heart 
in terrors. She was not a Avoman given to wild bursts 
of passion, but now she felt a wave of anger and hate 
surging over her soul, burning all hope, leaving only 
the ashes of despair. As she began slowly and surely 
to realize the truth, her soul sank in hopeless dread. 
For she had loved this man with all the love her heart 
might knoAv, and now she was the object of his scorn. 

Scrap pie, who had in vain striven to attract atten- 
tion, whining with brute sympathy for his mistress’ 
sorrow, jumped upon her lap, and licked up the tears 
that oozed through the lingers that govered her face. 


THE END. 


251 


The action roused her from her lethargy. The room 
had grown very dark, but the light of the street lamps 
flickered faintly on the window panes. She felt faint 
and weary, and she was shivering as with intense 
cold, although her hands and lips burned feverishly. 
She rose slowly from her chair, and mechanically light- 
ed a lamp. She was scarcely conscious of what she 
did. Her limbs trembled under her. She felt like one 
stunned — like one walking half-conscious in a dream. 
The very fibres of her life were bruised and bleeding 
with the blow she had received. 

She took from the^ rawer of a desk a sealed package, 
it was her will. She had made it some weeks before, 
leaving all her fortune to Randolph. This she placed 
upon the table where he would see it. Then she put 
on her bonnet ; she bent down and kissed little Scrap- 
pie, and went out into the chill night air. She had no 
thought of where she should go. Her only wish was 
to get away from him. He had cast her off — he had 
taunted her with her shame. 

She walked on, block after block, caring not whither 
she went until a strange white glitter met her sight, 
and she roused herself., and saw the river before her 
broken into silver ripples, where the moonbeams fell 
upon it. At the sight a mad desire for death took 
possession of her. The rushing waters would hide her 
from the sight of men — hide her from the world that 
was now so hateful to her. She crept stealthily along 
in the shadows of the houses, until she came to a de- 
serted pier, and then noiselessly she hurried out to its 
end. The ebbing tide drifted past, making black 
whirlpools and eddies as it swept through the rotting 
piles. She stood one moment watching the black 
waters. One stray moonbeam fell from a chink in the 
roof of the shed, and rested upon the boards close by 
her feet, but she heeded not the moonbeam or the 
shadows. She thought how easily she could die. A 
cloud flew swiftly across the face of the moon, and the 
little moonbeam disappeared, and when it shone upon 
the wharf once more, the form of Lillian had moved 
nearer to the brink. She thought again how easy it 
would be to die — one plunge and all would be as it had 
been before she came, save that on the surface of the 

tide as it rushed seaward ? there would be a few more 

* 


252 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


bubbles. Yet something' held her back. She could 
not die there — thus. 

The train was waiting across the river— it would 
take her to the station near where she wished to go. 
She had no thought of what would happen upon her 
arrival — no thought of the cold nor the darkness of 
the night. She could not think. 

Somehow the night passed, and the day dawned, 
and she found herself in the waiting-room of a railroad 
station. She had been asleep, and the station master 
had now aroused her. She looked at him stolidly as he 
told her that the midnight train, had left her there, . 
and that it was time she should go to her friends. 

She rose and went out. The earth was covered with 
snow, and the sun had already risen. The place was 
strange to her. She stopped a passer-by and asked 
how far it was from Rugby. 

“Ten miles.” 

All day she wandered on over the roads, careless 
whither she went until the noon became the afternoon. 
The cold wind penetrated her scanty dress, and the 
drifting snow stung her face and bare hands as it struck 
against them. Still she continued to walk on, for it 
was less cold when she was in motion than when she 
was sitting down. 

She went on aimlessty, not caring whither the roads 
led. Why should she care now that there was no 
home, no refuge, for them to lead her to ? Her one sole 
aim was to get away from the man who had scorned 
her — her one sole wish, to leave the scene of her abase- 
ment as far behind as possible. 

The snow grew deeper, and its moisture penetrated 
her well-worn shoes, and numbed her tired feet. 
Yes, she was tired, for now she had walked many miles; 
she was faint, for she had eaten nothing since the pre- 
ceding day. 

Soon, too soon, the gorgeous colors faded, and the 
dim, dusky shades of evening deepened into darkness. 
The last faint tints of color died out of the western 
horizon, and the white snow gleamed spectrally 
through the gathering gloom of the night. She 
moved on wearily and slowly, and sighed deeply, but 
there was a smile upon her face as she thought that 
the glories of Heaven would far surpass the glory of 


THE END. 


253 


the fair picture that she had seen. But the cold wind 
had grown colder, and the clouds were shaking down 
their snowflakes, and she trembled as she faltered on- 
ward. Now when life was threatened came the desire 
to live. In hours gone by she had thought that 
death would be a welcome ending of all her troubles, 
but now that the grim spectre was by her side, now 
that he had reached forth his hand for her, now that 
she saw his spectral figure by her side, now that she 
heard his voice calling her to him, the inborn brute 
love of life spurred her on to fight blindly and fiercely 
against him. 

The lights of a house not far from the road glimmer- 
ed through the falling snowflakes, and though they 
they flickered before her failing sight, she turned and 
struggled towards them. The windows came down to 
the floor and the curtains were drawn back so that 
she could see plainly into the room. How warm and 
cheerful it looked. Almost it seemed to her that the 
light which streamed out full upon her carried with it 
some of the warmth from within. 

She was about to tap upon the window pane when 
suddenly the figure of a man standing by the fireplace 
arrested her attention and her hand fell to her side. 
He stood before the glowing coals on the hearth, in 
the full glare of the lamps, and to her excited mind he 
seemed to be the man from whom, above all others, 
she sought to flee. It was Foerster ! 

For an instant all her weakness seemed to leave her, 
and she stood with parted lips and wildly beating 
heart gazing at him ; then the reaction came and with 
a low cry she sank down among the snow drifts, at 
the window’s base. 

The man inside lifted his head and listened and then 
he strode across the room to the window, and stood 
there for a minute looking out, while she crouched 
down almost at his feet, but her delirious mind had 
raised a barrier between her and him far greater than 
frail glass and wood. She saw his shadow thrown far 
out over the snow, and she crouched from his sight. 

He stood looking out of the window at the driving 
snowflakes, and then, as he turned away with a light 
laugh at what he deemed the folly of his own imagin- 
ation ? reached up and let the heavy curtains fall across 


254 


THE UNP A RDON ABLE SIN. 


the window. The simple action seemed to her excited 
mind to sentence her to death. He robbed the night 
of those bright mys of light which had cheered her, as 
he had robbed her life of its brightness ! Fate had 
brought her to his door, and he had shown her the 
light and then bade darkness be her portion. 

She crouched down, fearful lest he might still be lin- 
gering near enough to hear her movements, until she 
thought that time enough had gone for him to forget 
her cry. She could not ask shelter of him ; terrible as 
death might be, it was preferable to that. She would 
seek elsewhere for succor, and if death came before 
she reached it — then death would be grateful. She 
tried to rise, but her half frozen limbs had lost their 
strength and refused to sustain her. 

With a low sob she sank back into the yielding 
snow, and as she did so she heard the strains of music 
from within. It rose and fell, blending strangely but 
harmoniously with the wild whistling of the wind and 
the soughing of the branches of the leafless trees. It 
seemed to close in upon her and hold her motionless 
and powerless in its spell. How the sound seemed to 
swell and ring out, and the wind seemed to shriek 
more fiercely, and the swaying tree-tops to sob loudly 
in unison, as if the very elements had conspired to echo 
the melody. And now it sank lower, as if with very 
faintness, and the wind seemed to pause and the trees 
to sob in softest murmurs. 

The sweet throbbing notes, and the wilder harmonies 
seemed alike to lift her spirit from the cruel present, 
and bear it back to former days. Mirages of days gone 
by — pictures of the past arose. She heard again the 
sad complaining tones of her father’s violin, the deep 
notes of the organ in the chancel of the asylum, and 
the Sisters’ voices rising and falling in measured ca- 
dence as they chanted the familiar psalms. 

Within the house, Foerster sat before the organ, and 
his hands wandered over the keys, impelled as it were 
by some power which he could not control into the low, 
sad melody of a dirge. Without, the snow drifted upon 
the crouching form, wrapping her as if in a soft and 
fleecy blanket, the blackr ss of night fell down upon 
her like a shroud, and the wind sighed, and the tree- 
tops sobbed the notes of Nature’s requiem, 


THE END. 


255 


They found her there in the morning 1 , when day broke, 
and the stir of life began again. Her face was white 
and cold as the snow that shrouded her blue eyes 
gazed upon a world that she should -^e no more, and 
a tear had trickled down and frozen on her cheek. 
But the pinched, wan features were illuminated with a 
smile. They lifted her tenderly and placed her rever- 
ently in her coffin, and as they laid her to rest they said, 
“ Poor thing!” 

Randolph came home late at night. He had been 
drinking heavily and as he stumbled through the de- 
serted rooms he cursed the darkness. Not waiting to 
undress he cast himself upon the bed and sank into a 
drunken slumber. 

The sun was high in the heavens when he awoke with 
dry and parched throat and aching head. He sat up 
and gazed stupidly about striving with confused brain 
to recall what had happened. Slowly it all dawned 
upon him — his quarrel with Lillian, his flight from her, 
his drunkenness and his return. He rose slowly and 
let the cold water from the faucet run over his fevered 
head. How calm and cool and grateful the chill water 
was, it seemed to restore his mind and body to strength.. 

When the toilet was completed he went out again 
into the sitting room and his eye caught the packet and 
he took it up curiously and read the words endorsed 
upon it, “ The Last Will and Testament of Lillian Ran- 
dolph.” The skylit of this paper gave at once new cur- 
rent to his thoughts. He had supposed that Lillian, in 
a freak of indignation, had gone off for the night only 
and he had supposed that she would return some time 
during the day. But this paper brought suddenly a 
realizing sense of what had occurred. He recognized 
it as signifying that their parting was forever. He 
shuddered as he thought that perhaps she had been 
tempted to take her own life, and with this thought 
came like a flash upon him the knowledge of how much 
that life had been to him. 

He stretched out his arms and with a voice of wild 
and passionate yearning, as if he would call her back 
from the grave, he cried, “ Come back to me, Lillian. 
Come back ! Come back ! ^ome back to me, for I 
love 3 t ou and I will grant you all.” 


256 


THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. 


Alas ! It might not be. Call however passionately 
we may, the grave will not give up its dead. Yes, Lil- 
lian was dead. Her soul, with its burdens of shame and 
sin, had gone to meet its Maker. 

But Randolph did not know all at once what Lillian’s 
fate had been. There were many hitter days of uncer- 
tainty when he was tortured with doubt, and racked by 
remorse. Days when he strove in vain to track her 
footsteps — nights more terrible than the days. 

But when news came of the dead, and doubt became 
a certainty, the burden of his anguish seemed greater 
than he*eould bear. 


Weary years followed then for Randolph. Years 
made bitter by a knowledge that the one woman whom 
he really loved had been driven to death by him, and 
b}^ sin of his making and upholding 

The world might, and in truth it did, heap honors on 
his head ; wealth flowed freely into his coffers ; but ever 
afterwards the burden of his sin crushed him and 
remorse robbed life of ail its pleasure and its beauty. 

* * * * * * 

Long years afterwards when Randolph had retired 
from active business he was crossing the ocean in search 
of health. A young man — a fellow passenger — had 
been introduced to him and one da} r mentioned in con- 
versation that his grandfather lived in Brooktyn, and 
that -the old gentleman’s name was Sprague. 

“ I wonder,” Randolph said as the name revived old 
memories, I wonder if you are any relation to Miss 
Sarah Sprague who once lived in Brooklyn ?” 

“ She is my mother !” the young man replied smiling. 
“ Did you know her ?” 

“ She was once engaged to Arthur Erolt,” Randolph 
answered. “ He was a friend of mine.” 

“Oh! I have heard of him,” the young man ex- 
clai med. “ He did something terrible, did he not ?” 

Randolph started and with a sigh he answered bit- 
terly : “ Poor fellow ! He committed the one unpar- 
donable sin and died with its stigma upon him !” 

And Randolph, thinking of Erolt, breathed a sigh 
for Lillian. 


THE END. 


todies Home Gompafiion. 

A PRACTICAL HOUSEHOLD JOURNAL. 



10 cts. will secure 6 NUMBERS of 
this charming- periodical (all differ- 
ent), each copy equal in size, quality, 
amount of reading- matter, etc., to 
other illustrated papers that cost 10 
cents a copy, or $4.00 a year. 

The Ladies Home Companion is beautifully 
illustrated, printed on tine, cream-tinted 
paper, and has a more brilliant array of con- 
tributors than ever before, consisting of 

Eight Regular Editors and 
Scores of Eminent Writers, 

Whose facile pens will furnish Short 
and Continued Stories of absorbing 
Interest, while all branches of house- 
hold economy that can possibly come 
within the good housewife’s province 
will be ably treated. 

PRACTICAL 

HOUSEKEEPING.r:!lf»:,gg«: 

tions for every branch of housekeeping, in- 
cluding a large variety of tested recipes, and 
how to prepare them at the least expense, in 
dainty and appetizing forms ; also, hints for 
table decorations, methods of work, etc. 

■PlTSw'fnWC* "Or.' WHAT TO WEAR AND HOWTO MAKE IT. 

JC xlSXiXvili D? Artistic illustrations and descriptions of, with the newest 
and latest Styles and Novelties in Ladies’ and Children’s Dresses Hats, Bonnets 
and other garinents,with directions that enable one to dress well and economically, 
■n /» »TflV lim'D'Zr These departments give elegant illustrations and 
Jl ilil V X W yXilL* plain directions showing how to make all kinds of 
■nTtnAB A FTJYATVrSf fancy work, embroideries, needlework, crocheting, 
.LrJuOUJ&xiAxV/ill O. knitting, suggestions for ornamenting rooms, dec- 


Now in its 16 th year, well established, tried and true as at- 
tested by a constituency of over Three Hundred Thousand 
Readers. The publishers, desirous of extending its influence 
into a half million homes, offer 

3 Months trial 


orating furniture, curtains, etc. , . . , 

MAnnUT'PC find the portion devoted to them invaluable, a 
lViUlUXji&O Wide range of helpful suggestions obtained from practical ex- 
perience relating to a mother’s duties. „ 

bcCUPATIONS FOR WOMEN, 

in reference to those things that wives, mothers and single women are doing to earn 
BiODey, while in all its departments it is the most complete, most readable and 


Most Fascinating Ladies Papep Published. 

TIOUETTE at home and abroad, at the table and on the street, >t publio 
*atlierin ,T s etc TOIEET.— Recipes and hints for care of bands, face, teeth, 'yes, 
lair.etc.f color ardharmony in dress, etc.. DEPORTMENT. - Rules, mages 
and ceremonies of good society, letter writing, good manners, the art ol con. 
versing well, accomplishments, home training. 

So popular have our publications become that more than a million people read them regularly 

mention tuspaper^ LADIES HOME COMPANION, Philadelphia, Pa 


GOOD HANDWRITING OFTEN LEADS TO A FORTUNE! 

A few of tie Best Antograpls, slowing Improvement from nsing 

GASKELL’S COMPENDIUM 

Of 8ELF-TEACHIIVG PENMANSHIP. 

The best specimens of improvement come from Mr. Harrie M. Reeves, in the 
office of the Canada Southern Railway Lines, at Detroit, Mich., his elegant pen- 
manship securing him the position. We give here his portrait and autographs 
( both old and new): 

[Hon. Henry Watterson in Answers 
to Correspondents in the Louisville 
Courier-Journal .) 

“We have received a number of in- 
quiries concerning this system of self- 
teaching penmanship, and reply here that 
it is valuable. Anyone who will follow 
the methods laid down in it, and give 
due application thereto, will consider that 
a most excellent investment of a dollar 
has been made. The Compendium 
places good handwriting within the reach 
of everyone, and its success has been 
demonstrated by the sale in this country 
and England of over Three Hundred 
thousand copies .” 

[N. Y. Daily Witness.'] 

“The salient advantages of Gaskell’s 
system are its legibility, rapidity and 
beauty. * * * There is no style of writing, 
plain or ornamental business or epistolary, 
for lady or gentleman, which is not includ- 
ed in this admirable system. And we 
think that if anything at all could fire 
an indifferent writer with a desire to be- 
come an expert and elegant penman, an 
inspection of Mr. Gaskell’s system would 
do so.” 


[Hon. James A. Weston, Ex- 
Governor of New Hampshire , 
in a note to the Publisher .] 

“You will permit me to say that 
it far surpasses anything of the 
kind that has ever come to my 

notice, and I take pleasure in re- Former Style, 

commending it to the attention of * 

all who desire to learn to write 
rapidly and well. With this as a 
gu de, and tact and application on 
the part of the learner, a beautiful 
handwriting may be acquired at a 
trifling expense.” 

GASKELL’S COMPEN- 
DIUM consists of a full series of 
COPY SLIPS, PRINTED 
'INSTRUCTIONS, ORNA- 
MENTAL FLOURISH- 
ING, LETTERING, PEN-DRAWING 1 LADIES’ PENMAN- 
SHIP, &c., &c. By means of this self-teaching system anyone can a 
cquire a rapid and beautiful handwriting at odd hours, without a teacher. It is the 
finest series of penmanship ever published, and put up in durable and elegant form. 
PRICE, ONE DOLLAR, for which it will be mailed, prepaid anywhere. You 
need not take the trouble o go to the Post-office to get a money order or to register 
your letter, but, as you finish reading this, enclose a one dollar bill in your letter 
and send it at our risk. Address all orders to 

• GASKELL’S COMPENDIUM, P. 0. Box 2767, New York, 





























































. 

















□oosevaai 40 


